It hasn't really hit me yet. In fact, I can joke about it now but give me until this weekend when I'm simmering with resentment and loathing for all things triathlon/Oceanside.
I've discovered throughout the arduous journey of this injury that the less I'm working out, the longer my Triathlete Magazines sit here. I read Allure, InStyle (no idea why I still get these - I seethe with anti-eating disorder pathos every time I read them) People (total guilty indulgence - since I can't cram cupcakes in my mouth, I read People). The point is that the Triathlete Magazines remain untouched.
Yeah, yeah. You triathletes with your muscles and your non-muffin waistlines and your non-injuries. You just ride your bikes and win your races. So, if I don't read about you, then I'm totally justified in my non-acknowlegment.
During those many fits and starts through the last 2.5 years, I glom onto the magazines and read them word for word - on the toilet, in the kitchen and at work. I pore over the advertisements, Scott Tinley. Everything.
My coach wants me to volunteer at the race this weekend but I don't think that's such a good idea. I like my non-reality just where it is. It would just make me hate the tri-weenies even more than usual. And, more than anything, it would remind me just how frustrating this whole experience has been.
I listen to my coach like gospel but not this weekend.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment