Skip to main content

Dumb-assness

I’d like to coin this phrase, but no doubt someone’s beat me to it. However, it’s been more prevalent in my vocabulary lately. Somehow it seems kinder to say someone suffers from “dumb-assness” verses just calling him or her a dumb-ass. Like it’s beyond their control that they do completely stupid things. There are several great examples I’d like to share, but am afraid one of my two readers may know of whom I speak and that would be bad.

Onto even less interesting news…training for IM-Wisconsin has officially begun. Yeehaw. Last week saw totals of: 3:20 hrs. on the bike trainer, 2:15 hrs. on the treadmill, 10,500 yards in the pool and 2 hours of yoga. Throw in a couple nights coaching the Blazers swim kiddos, and my permanent scent has a strong chlorine base to it.

Speaking of coaching tonight is one of the two nights per week I get to shape young swimmers into the great athletes they aspire to be. Okay, that’s a lie. I’m the coach that has resorted to prizes purchased at the Dollar Store to get the little buggers to complete a set. It’s amazing how hard they’ll work for a key chain. The exchange goes something like this:


Me: Okay, guys. We’re going to do a set of four 50’s free.

Kids continue to bob around in the water completely disregarding me.

Me: Guys. What did I just say? What set are we doing?

Kids stare blankly at me through their bug-eyed goggles.

Me: Okay. Whoever can swim the four 50’s with the best form and a PROPER flip turn gets whatever prize I’m holding behind my back.

Kids (simultaneously): Oh, pick me! I can do awesome flip turns! I never win anything! I really want the prize!!!! Pick me!!!


50’s are completed and Tyler is declared the winner. There is much ceremony to getting out of the pool and him picking which of my hands contains the prize he wants. And what does his hard work earn him? A Bic pen. I’m the worst coach ever.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Zack, the Smiths and a Gift Card

I’ve lived in my house for three years. Apparently, some guy named Zack has also lived in my house for the past year. Or at least Bill and Annie Smith (not their real names) in Overland Park, Kansas think he lives at my address. They send him a lot of cards – thank you notes, just for fun cards and yesterday, I received Zack’s birthday card. Obviously for me to know what kind of cards they send, I open them. The first time I received one, I “Returned to Sender,” but not since then. They keep on coming and I keep on opening them. It’s like reality TV, but through the mail. I’m not proud of my actions and suspect it’s illegal for me to keep opening Zack’s mail. But now I’m genuinely interested in how he’s doing. Zack got a new job last fall (Attaboy card), gave the Smiths Big 12 Tournament tickets (thank you note), and he had a birthday this week. Until yesterday, there was nothing of value in the cards besides sweet sentiment. But in the birthday card there was a Pla...

The Softride Has Left The Building

Today I bid adieu to my first triathlon bike – a Softride Rocket TT named Sally. (“Ride, Sally, Ride...”) While technically still mine until the ebay auction ends tomorrow, she has been dropped off at the bike store for clean up and packing. We’ll ship her off to the new owner this weekend and that will be the end of my beam bike era. A Softride is considered old school in the triathlon world and is mocked mercilessly by roadies. Sally has a carbon beam, no down tube and 650 wheels – basically the low-rider Cadillac of bikes. While it doesn’t have a stiff suspension or a brag-worthy weight, it has one thing – comfort. This is something I desperately needed when training for my first Ironman. Sally raced at Kona in 2001 and Wisconsin in 2003. She was dependable and attention-getting. Like riding a motorcycle, Softride enthusiasts also offered the casual hand wave when you encountered another one on the road. However, there are fewer out there these days. The Softride...

Adding Some Color

I distinctly remember my first encounter with food coloring. It was love at first chemical-laden sight. Mom and I were icing sugar cookies. We'd made a bowl of white icing. Then she broke out the food coloring. I was memorized by the bright colors and giddy at the thought of mixing them. Like most six year olds, I believed more was better. So the icing started a lovely pink after a few drops of red. Next came lavender with some blue. Then Mom turned her back just long enough for me to reenact the movie Cocktail with food coloring. Every color was going in and hell with a few drops, more is better. This is fantastic, I thought, as I created a rainbow in the bowl. I stirred with glee until I realized the rainbow was disappearing. The icing was turning a disgusting shade of gray-brown. This was terrible. No one wants to eat icing that looks like poop. So you're thinking, nice little story Jen. Way to point out that more isn't necessarily better. But that's actually n...