I’m lousy at trying to keep secrets that don’t really need to be secrets

Recently, Roomie and I have come full circle on an idea that first occurred to us a long time ago when I was wasting time on the internet.

Me: “Hey, did you know you can get like eight thousand dollars for donating your eggs? And it’s not even an invasive surgery or anything.”

Roomie: “Really? Count me in! What, do they just vacuum them out of you or something?”

Me: “Sure, something like that.”

Roomie’s boyfriend: “Yup, this is definitely the conversation I imagined us having when I drove down here this weekend.”

Anyway, fast forward a year or so. I can’t remember how we got back onto the topic, but one night Roomie is asking me if we want to sign up for a webinar for more info on egg donation. Well, sure. Why not? Now I can ask them if that question about blood transfusions is a deal breaker. I can’t help it that I was the poster child for random blood diseases when I was a kid. I spent a lot of time outside … and didn’t like to shower.

I inform Roomie that I’m totally on board, but we’re not allowed to actually TELL anybody about this endeavor. I’ll just tell them I’m having lady problems when I have to go to the doctor’s office. Nobody ever wants to ask about lady problems. It occurs to me a moment later that we may have to tell Kate if she finds comes home and finds us watching an egg-donation webinar in the living room.

We quickly discover that we have signed up for the wrong webinar when they start talking about “choosing a donor” and “getting pregnant.” This is for people who want to USE an egg donor. We do NOT need to use an egg donor. We are soooo very far from needing to use an egg donor. Kate comes home and I feel the need to blab about what we’re doing anyway, even though we’ve given up on the ambiguously-titled-and-completely-unhelpful webinar. And I tell her that she should do it too. 

Anyway, here’s to providing strangely invasive information to strangers on the internet. Don’t worry, it looks highly legitimate.



this year’s open, some self pity, and Coach has to double as a therapist again

So, the crossfit open. We’re almost through this year’s five weeks of competition, and I haven’t written one blog post on the topic. Certain readers are probably relieved about this after I inundated them with crossfit-open posts last year (ahem, my sister informed me that my blog would be more interesting if I write about normal things, so she could understand what I was talking about). But I need to at least acknowledge the open.

So here’s the deal. This year, I just don’t care. I really tried to at the beginning. L made me video my first WOD because she was hoping for the slim but possible chance of regionals qualification, and, bless her heart, refuses to acknowledge how much better she is than me. But I couldn’t get into it, because I felt like I wasn’t any good anymore. I’d been sliding down that slippery slope of fewer and fewer gains since before Christmas, and I couldn’t figure out what was going on. And love these people though I might, crossfiters have a tendency toward absolute positivity that is absolutely wonderful about 98 percent of the time. But that other two percent of the time …

When your performance is less-than-great over and over and over again, and everybody still tells you “great job” over and over and over again, it makes you wonder if maybe this is good. Maybe mediocre is the best you can manage. Nobody seems disappointed in you, so why would you be disappointed in yourself?

It’s funny how much difference one conversation can make.

“Yeah, I was wondering what’s going on with you lately. It seems like you’re struggling. But you know that’s all in your head, right?”

Poor Coach. We had started the perfectly normal conversation talking about I-don’t-remember-what, how I’m lousy at following directions, I think. He had no idea what he was in for. Thankfully, it’s not the first time I’ve succumbed to completely unnecessary tears in front of him. Or the second. I’ve lost count by now. In hindsight, “I’m getting worse at everything!” and, “All my friends are better than me!” may have been approaching the realms of hyperbole, but they summed up how I was feeling at the time.

Oh well, being a crossfit coach basically comes with the imperative that you must be able to deal with—or quickly learn to deal with—crying women. I KNOW I am not the only one here.

Anyway, that one conversation basically fixed me. It’s weird, that all I needed was for somebody to say, “I’ve noticed that you seem to be sucking at this lately, and that doesn’t seem like you.” All the positivity in the world couldn’t help as much as having somebody else acknowledge that there was a problem. I was finally back to feeling like I could accomplish anything I wanted to. Hooray!

For a week. Until I threw out my back doing 14.3 and shortly afterward got the flu.

I can still accomplish anything I want to. Just not right at this very second. Bring on the 2015 open; I think I missed it this year.

Things I really want to explain to other people …

But it would just sound too weird if I said them out loud.

Dear Crossfitters , despite appearances to the contrary, I actually DO shave my underarms occasionally. Any dark color you may notice in that area is actually caused by fuzz that sticks there when I wear a sweater over a tank top. And I have to wear a sweater every day because I work in arctic tundra.

Dear Coworkers, if you hear a farting noise in your vicinity and I am also in your vicinity, it was probably caused by me. But I refuse to excuse myself, not because I don’t want to take the blame, but because there is an off chance you didn’t hear anything at all, and then it would make the situation even more awkward. Ask Roomie; I do this to her all the time.

Dear Lifting Coach, I secretly call singlets onesies when you are not around because I think they are so ridiculous looking and also because my memory CANNOT retain the word singlet pretty much ever. Onesie seems better that short-unitard-with-no-sleeves, which is the only other description that ever comes to mind.

Dear Doc, I confess that I am usually a pretty sweaty person anyway. But I am not THIS sweaty until I show up at your office and think about the fact that you have to work on my shoulder. Which may involve you touching my underarm at some point. Also same deal with my foot the other day. Your office makes me sweat. IT IS NOT MY FAULT.

Dear Creepy Neighbor from the old house, I think you’re very creepy and am not at all sorry that I just laughed and shut the door that time that you asked if I wanted to get a drink sometime.  I tried to feel sorry afterward, but I just couldn’t.

Dear Dennis, there is one mozzarella stick left in your bag of mozzarella sticks in the fridge at work. It has been there for a long time, and I think you may have forgotten it is there. You should know that, if you leave it much longer, I am going to eat it. Because I never bring enough food to work and am always starving by 4pm.

Dear Crossfit Coach, sometimes I ogle your ass when you aren’t looking. Cheers!