Running stairs and goat brain

Posted on April 15, 2010
Filed Under Daily, Life in L.A., Little Kids Smell, The Boss | 11 Comments

In an attempt to uncover my pre-wedding body from the fat-laced trenches of post-wedding gluttony, I’ve started to get back into my regular fitness routine, which has been made much easier since my time in physical therapy, and The Boss’s recent public declaration (from the bathroom) of wanting to get back in shape, too. His drive motivates me — not only to push myself, but also to annihilate his progress with my own. Why? Because the only thing that matters in life, Boys and Girls is WINNING. AT EVERYTHING. Make note of that, and tell it to your teacher as she walks you to the principal’s office after you get in trouble for pegging little Barry in the face with a dodgeball at recess.

The Boss and I have been involved in competitive sports since before most kids could sound out the letters in a Dr. Seuss book, yet ever since we moved to L.A. we’ve been struggling to find a balance between work, and the rest of EVERYTHING life has to offer. And yes, I’ll admit, HERE ON THE INTERNET, that the two of us have stood in front of a mirror and simultaneously critiqued our bodies. All I was missing was a black Sharpie to circle his imperfections, and I would have been straight Senior Sorority Sister up in here. AY-O!!! Watch me throw up my sign, Snitches! The only reason The Boss stopped inspecting his pecs was because he heard Sports Center come back from commercial, and dove into the living room like a frat boy who just heard the words Jell-O and sequined bikini in the same sentence. Internet, I’m totally serious when I say we could have rocked the crap out of Greek Life.

But The Boss has more of an excuse for not maintaining than I do. He’s totally overworked, leaving the house every morning, and returning every night the same way: Exhausted. Sure, I’m working too, but at least I get to do it from home. The biggest challenge I face all day is holding my pee for so long that my lower back starts to throb with shooting pains that feel like a clan of cleat-wearing Leprechauns is Irish River Dancing inside my spleen. The bathroom is only eight feet away from where I spend most of my day, but can’t get up because I just need to edit…this…last…OH MY GOD, MY BLADDER IS ON THE WALL!

With The Boss and I encouraging each other to (attempt to) make time for our physical health and well being (which to me in equally as important as a person’s spiritual well being) I’ve started to set small goals for myself, which yesterday included running stairs. As I came sprinting down a spiral staircase, located just outside of a daycare, I locked eyes with a little boy walking into the center with his mom. My plan was to make it to the bottom, turn around, and run back to the top, but apparently, that’s not what the little boy thought I was going to do. As I came closer, he clutched his mom’s hand so tight, I’m positive her knuckles went white, and when I stepped off the last step, his full-body startle threw him so far into the air, I actually paused to be witness to his hangtime. I guess when you’re less than three years removed from the safety of the womb, you don’t have the skill set to assess a situation quickly enough to infer a seemingly obvious and logical next step, which in most cases would not involve plowing into a small child on his way to daycare. But nonetheless he was scared, and maybe rightfully so. Watching a Muslim woman sprint toward you wearing earrings the size of sailboats, and panting louder than a group yoga class could be likened to standing directly in the path of Frankenstein as he rushes to the bathroom after eating 12 pounds of goat brain, and realizing that he should have skipped that final splash of Frank’s Red Hot.

I’m sure some of you feel sorry for that little boy whom I (unintentionally) scared, but I don’t feel sorry for him at all. He watched me run down all those stairs, and he waited until the very end to be startled? If you ask me, I think he deserves to be scared again so he can learn the importance of being prepared. He’s lucky we met on a day when I was too focused on my calves to teach him a life lesson. Next time, I’m going to hide in the ball pit before snack time, and when he jumps in, I’m going to leap from the its depths and scream, “GOAT BRAINS!”

We’ll see how he does then.

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