Fe

There is a new man in my life. I call him Vita-Mix. He’s stunning. He performs feats of great power, such as taking kernels of fresh corn, sliced Vidalia, and a touch of cream, and turning them into a frothy, delectable soup that leaps into your mouth, strips down to its bathing suit, and unearths a six-pack of Coors light tallboys.

The Vita-Mix, for those of you who haven’t been acquainted, is a blender. But not really a blender, since it’s better than a blender. That’s like calling John Elway a ball player. It’s more a fearsome-yet-tender lover of foods, able to go from the earth-shattering vortex of making wheat berries into a fine flour, or turning ice cubes into liquid frost, to a gentle caress of cutting butter into flour for pie crust, or a gentle tossing of avocado into guacamole chunks. There’s an element of “cup-the-balls” to the lowest setting that brings a tear to your eye.

It’s just amazing, and I can’t imagine my life without it. It’s going to become an even more integral part of my daily life, given my latest bout of crazies. It’s going to be whipping up protein shakes one after the other, with a carefree whir of its blades.

The thing is, Chris was sleeping in the other day and I was awake. This is always a dangerous state of affairs, but usually the only consequence is the dog wearing a hockey jersey, or the kitchen being the scene of an epic culinary battle, and me standing in the middle of it with bacon-flavored waffle batter in my hair. But this time, he woke up to find himself registered for the Ironman triathlon in October. It’s the Austin, not the Kona. Kona you have to QUALIFY for, and we are in no way qualified. Neither of us has ever done anything even weakly resembling a triathlon, and even if we had, the Ironman is way longer than, say, the Olympic triathlon. It will probably kill us. And my brother, as he’s doing it with us. But as they bury my sodden corpse into the ground, my hope is that they’ll stop, shed a single tear, and say “Kristie was bionic. And LOOK at those abs!” Sure, two marathons were incapable of unearthing an abdominal muscle of any kind, but maybe if I up the ante a bit…probably not.

I’m terrified, I’ll have you know. For one, I don’t really know how to swim. And also, I’ve never even biked half of the distance required. But I’ve got FOUR SOLID MONTHS to train, and am pretty stubborn. In order to help me maintain focus, I’ve prepared a statement for myself. I picture it being read by a hardcore voice in the background of a Gatorade commercial, only their electrolyte sweat isn’t yellow in my vision, but a kickass pink:

I am an ironwoman. Possibly iron alloy, though, since real iron is actually quite soft. I believe I am made primarily of steel, with concrete reinforcements covered in pink gang graffiti. My underpants are like rebar, but on the outside. When people don’t spend enough time around me, they become anemic. Their faces become pale and they feel weak. When you ask them what’s wrong, they may not know the answer, but it’s definitely a me deficiency. In fairness, though, in very large quantities I am toxic. As an ironwoman, I am very heavy. Sometimes, when I’m running, my legs start to weigh upwards of 300 pounds apiece, and it’s difficult to move them. People think it’s because I’m tired after running a mere half of one mile, but it’s actually the magnitude of my metallosity. I hope you understand. Swimming is also very difficult, not because I am a terrible swimmer, but because iron is so heavy it sinks. I’m basically fighting against my very nature…being made of iron. Sure, I’m a terrible cyclist, but it’s not my fault. If I were carbonfiberwoman, I’d be much lighter and on par with cycling technology. Everyone knows they stopped making bikes out of steel a long time ago because it’s hard to move something as dense as a chevy with just your legs. So life as an ironwoman is not easy, it’s not fun, it’s not actually very comfortable. But it’s something I will live through, because I am iron, and my half-life is over 1.5 million years.

You guys will spur me on, though. With your alternating bits of sarcasm and delicious foods being my only source of energy. Well, that and my protein shakes.

9 thoughts on “Fe”

  1. That was hilarious. I could not imagine that I would laugh so hard reading a post that I thought was actually going to be Fe Fi Fo Fum or some other such nonsense. But, I will continue to read your daily trials and tribulations as a true ironwoman. Good luck with the protein shakes as they mostly taste like rotten @$$. At least, that is what I assume as the powder stinks so much.

  2. I can make some damn tasty protein shakes, so I imagine you will not have any trouble making even tastier shakes. Let me know how you make them and what you use.

  3. You are so tough, it’s ridiculous. Unfortunately, if you scratch your cheek with a toothpick to leave evidence of your toughness, you’ll just wolverine that shiz and no one will ever see it.

  4. how far is it that you have to bike? because I say you can easily bike however far you can run. Hell, back when Shawn was training for the MS 150, I went and biked 7 miles with him. And this was before I even started my running thing…which probably means that you can actually bike 7 times further than you can run.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *