Squeamish Men & Inadequate Legs

I’ll make them connect. Just read.

I told Tommy I was gonna write an entire post about girls pooping.

Because he thinks we shouldn’t do that.

Actually, I think the specific wording was that we shouldn’t be able to do that.

Like, somewhere in our history. Women fought for the right to poop. And won. And he thinks we should go back to the time before . And make women hold their poop again.

He doesn’t have a solid alternative. Like, he’s not suggesting that we all switch to a liquid diet. He’s not gonna fight us for our steak and eggs. He just feels that we shouldn’t process those steak and eggs in the same manner that men do.

I’ve had this conversation before.

A lot of times before.

Because I’m friends with GJB.

And we trail run with a lot of women.

And all of us poop.

Often while running trails.

And we announce it before we do. Because it’s the polite thing to do.

Otherwise your friends will think you’ve been dragged off trail by a serial killer and they’ll come looking for you only to find you squatting against a tree while you scroll through your timeline.

I’m just playin.

If you can manage to scroll through your timeline while pooping in the woods, you’re not running hard enough.

Mostly you’re just praying your legs don’t give out while also planning for how you will lift yourself out of a squat position without falling over into your own poop. Or anyone else’s.

So we talk about pooping so that our friends like GJB don’t have to see that.

And GJB is so against a woman’s right to poop that he has developed an entire anatomical design plan. To change women’s bodies. To divert food waste in a different form.

He has schematics and everything.

And don’t tell him I said this, but I actually really like his design plan.

Dammit.

Like, it would make running so much easier. To never have to stop and squat on the side of a trail.

Can you imagine how much faster you could run?

No.

No I can’t imagine.

Because Chiro Doc promised that when he fixed me, I’d be “fast again.”

And then he handed me off to other Chiro Doc. I assume because she appreciates my brand of awkward more than he does. And she actually did fix me. Like, two runs back to back with zero pain.

So, I tried to run the track after work with my co-worker.

And she’s just cruising along chatting.

And I’m just trying to maintain oxygen. And keep up.

And after a couple of laps she says something about pace.

7:40.

She was running a 7:40 pace.

And I was running it with her.

And just as soon as my body heard “7:40 pace.”

It started to short circuit.

And looked at the group of co-workers that were walking. And chatting. And clearly not on the verge of absolutely breaking down.

And maybe I walked a lap or two with them.

To quiet the expletives that my body was screaming at me. Like it used to anytime I’d run with J-Pete.

And holy hell.

My legs and my lungs are just not prepared to maintain a sub-10 pace anymore.

So when I got home. I decided to punish my legs with a leg day workout.

Because this is obviously all their fault.

But around 20 minutes in. Just as they were beginning to feel sufficiently remorseful. For being inadequate. I remembered.

I’ve got to go to North Fucking Mountain on Sunday.

In two days.

And two days is how long it takes for muscle soreness to really kick in.

And I’m already gonna be the weakest link in my group.

Because NFM PTSD.

And inadequate legs.

And I thought briefly about finishing the workout anyway.

Because delayed consequences.

But then I had flashes of me crawling up Catawba Valley Trail. Gradually disappearing under the leaves. As Skratch and Goatfinder and the rest of the group happily climb on without me.

No one should die on North Fucking Mountain.

People really shouldn’t even visit there.

But definitely no one should have to experience their last moments on this earth in that place.

So I stopped my workout.

Took a poop.

And showered.

Because you should always shower after you poop. That’s GJB’s rule.

I don’t generally follow his rules.

But this time it made sense.

And then crawled into my jammies to savor some comfort before Sunday.

Because there is no comfort on North Fucking Mountain.

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