a surprising number of people suddenly think it’s hilarious to interrogate me

I need to stop stockpiling silverware in my desk drawers at work. It’s a weird habit. Especially since most of the silverware belongs to the office, not me. Anyway, moving on…

So there’s this guy who I might be sort of going out with (I know this is horribly out of character for me). Whatever. Don’t ask me any questions. It’s not important. This post is not about the guy (who I am heartily praying has not discovered that I have a blog); this post is about—of course—crossfit. Duh.

But you need to know about the guy for background information.

I wrote a post about a hundred years ago about why crossfitters are awesome. I’m writing a sequel. The sequel is still about why I love these people, but it’s in an exasperated I-wish-you-would-leave-me-alone-but-not-really kind of way. My crossfitters have become like family. Aww, we’re so adorable. It sounds great. And it is great. But it means we are not allowed to keep things to ourselves. It means everybody knows what I’m thinking and how to push my buttons.

“What are you doing after the WOD tonight?” K asked. I was sure she just wanted a buddy to practice pull ups with or something.

“Umm, stuff.”

Immediate comprehension. “Ahh. Stuff with Mark stuff?”



I thought I’d gotten off easy until L came bounding over after the workout and began to scold me, “Ohh, I’m mad at you! Why didn’t you tell me?? I need to know these things, so I can be excited for you!” Which is true. She gets ridiculously more excited at the idea of me going on a date than I do.

“Kate tattled on me, didn’t she? I can’t tell anybody anything!”

Another night I was trying leaving after the 5 o clock WOD when Coach called over to me, “Where are you going?”

Not only is it odd for me to actually LEAVE right after a WOD, but I had also changed into street clothes, a bit of a giveaway.


“Yeah? You got a hot date?”

We had had this exact conversation on a few previous occasions, and at this point, I would always laugh and say, “Yeah, with my roommate,” or “with my sister,” or “with Lizzy.”

“Maybe,” I answered, scurrying off to say bye to L because I knew she would want to hug me and tell me how pretty I looked (even though I had just done a million burpees and then not showered), and, let’s face it, I’m never going to turn down the chance for a complement.

We couldn’t have talked for more than 30 seconds, but when I turned to go I found that Coach had come over and was standing about three inches behind me. Coach, who is the most stoic, un-gossipy, un-excitable person I know, had decided to fill in for my mother.

 “Wait, you really have a date? Why don’t I know about this?”

“Okay, I’m leaving now.”

Probably, these people wouldn’t show any interest in my (extraordinarily uneventful) love life if I didn’t turn a ridiculous shade of crimson and start furiously trying to change the subject every time they did. 


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