Sometimes I Wear Pants

“Good morning, Sunshine! You look nice today!”

…Thanks…I mean I’m just…wearing pants? I guess that’s…kind of fancy? But thanks…

“No, you just usually…I don’t ever see you wearing…pants…”

…Ok. That’s fair.

I just…pants are usually so hard to wear. With their unreasonable buttons and shit.

But I’ve recently managed enough gym time. And running time. To be able to fully fasten up my pants. And almost not to have to take rest breaks when putting them on.

To be clear, I don’t actually go outside of my apartment pantsless. I just, am usually wearing gym shorts. Or sweatpants. Or any manner of unattractive clothing options.

Because I’m usually on my way to run. Or the gym.

And there’s just no reason to clean yourself. Or put on pants. When you spend your days engaging in those types of activities.

I mean, I do clean myself. I do shower. Almost daily.

Although, right now my legs look like I’m only half washed. Like maybe I’ve cleaned my “Fun China” down to about halfway down my thighs. And then just said fuck it. And left the rest of my legs unwashed.

Because when you spend the week in Leadville, Colorado. Excessively close to the sun. Where sunscreen is powerless. You develop some very persistent tan lines. That don’t necessarily line up with the rest of your shorts.

You know what else happens when you spend the week in Colorado? Climbing. And running. Mountains?

You start to believe that you’re building. Strengthening. Your lungs.

And that you’ll return to the lowlands. As some sort of super efficient respirator. And be able to run faster and shit.

And then I went to the gym…

The reality…

But I was so sure. That I’d made so much progress. Working through that thin ass air. That I’d be able to handle whatever J-Vicious threw at me.

And then he threw this at me.

“Everyone start with whichever group you want.”

Cool. I’ll take In and Out Squats by 50’s, please.

“Except Sunshine. You start with Burpees.”

Dammit.

I don’t know if you can see what’s happening on that board. But there’s a lot of…math involved. You’ve got to count down. By 5’s. Or 2’s. Or 1’s.

And I lost all those brain cells in Colorado, you know?

So it’s not my fault.

“Ok. Now you’ve got 11 bear crawls.”

No. Only 10.

“11.”

Fuck. Hang on. Apparently I’ve got another box jump burpee to do.

So I don’t actually know how many of the burpee round I actually did. I just know it was the worst round. And sweat was pouring into my eyes. And I was struggling to actually breath the oxygen that I know is in abundance here in Virginia. And the vomit was threatening to come.

“Ok! Push ups next. 100 of them.”

I know. I can count.

“Can you, though?”

…Ok, maybe not.

Because when I got to the end of my third set of crunches, J-Vicious asked what number I was on.

15.

“How?”

I don’t know.

“That’s not even possible.”

…<counting on my fingers>

“It should be 80, 55, 30, or 5.”

…fuck. Hang on.

Just. Seriously. He shouldn’t make me count reps. Counting is not in my wheelhouse.

“What’s taking you so long?”

I’m trying not to vomit.

“You better not vomit on my floor.”

He said that. Tuesday. As I was struggling just to breath. With my useless high altitude Colorado lungs.

But then I went back Wednesday.

For leg day.

My day.

And he made this.

And I don’t know if you’ve ever done knee stand ups.

But they’re basically a move created by Satan. That you might use to climb out of. Or maybe into. The depths of hell.

So after I sent him. I mean, J-V. Not Satan.

Fuck. Or maybe Satan.

Outside to get Fall Risk. Who was refusing to come in from the parking lot.

I fixed it.

I didn’t, like, completely erase them.

I just changed them to a more reasonable number.

Like, maybe only enough to get us to purgatory. And not all the way into the inner depths of hell.

I was only trying to help.

Because I know what a 50 minute weighted wall sit feels like.

I’ve done that before.

Apparently he hasn’t.

Because Wednesday. On leg day. My day. I was not the one struggling.

Or whining.

Or skipping reps.

Know who was?

J-Vicious.

He struggled so hard.

And suddenly he was really wanting me to vomit. To show some sign of weakness.

Nope. Not on leg day, Buddy. This is my day.

And I absolutely could have held that wall sit. With that dumbass 75 pound sand bag. Long enough to avoid the knee ups altogether. Which he’d changed back to 50.

“You can’t avoid the knee ups.”

You don’t know what I can do.

“Actually, I do.”

And. Dammit. Yeah, he does. It’s, like, his only skill. Knowing what people are capable of. And forcing them beyond that.

But when he said that I couldn’t avoid the knee ups. What he meant was that his petty ass was gonna push me over. Forcing me to drop. Enough times that I had to do knee ups.

But when he said that we were doing 50 of them. What he meant was, “Sunshine is absolutely right. Fifty is an unreasonable number. We only have to do ten. I appreciate her insight and brilliance in being able to anticipate my limits. Because even though she could probably do more than ten, she recognized that I can’t. And I appreciate that. We’re all just lucky to have her in our lives,”

It was a beautiful moment.

You probably wouldn’t expect such an eloquent and heartfelt expression of gratitude from someone named J-Vicious…

Anyway, I’m gonna go put some pants on again. For work.

Hopefully one of my neighbors is outside again when I leave. To tell me how not disgustingly filthy I look. For a change.

A girl’s gotta have her compliments.

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