This morning was the 6-hour spinathon for Special Olympics Vermont and it started at 8, but my dad is the kind of guy who wants to get there really early, set up his bike, put on his socks, get the lay of the land, etc. So what time did we leave to get there (the place was 20 minutes away)? We left at 6:15. And I had to make and pack all my lean protein and healthy fat snacks so this means I had to get up at 5:30. Phebe asked who brought Debbie Downer along because I kept complaining about it being way to early to be leaving. It was a vicious cycle: I would make a complain-y joke about how it was a good thing we were at the place 4 hours early, and Phebe would call me a Debbie Downer, my dad would laugh. And repeat. Also, Phebe made fun of me mercilessly because I brought my own little cooler with cottage cheese, yogurt, fruit, and almonds because I wasn't sure if the food they offered would follow my cute little triathlon diet I'm on. Phebe dared me to cook and bring salmon so I could eat it while biking. Maybe next year.
This morning we were given bags with random things inside (common practice at races; the bag includes more non-useful things than useful....you know, pamphlets for races that are forever away, random lotion for callouses, stickers promoting some random sunglasses company you've never heard of, you get the point). One of the things was a tank top. Cute, right? WRONG. Races and competitions just decide to put athletes in this little "you workout so you must be tiny and cute" box. This pepto-bismol colored tank top was the size of Ruby. Of Ruby's pinky. I told the woman who gave it to me that if I put it on, stuff would stick out everywhere. She REALLY enjoyed that comment. Awesome.
Tonight our plan was to have salmon and potatoes (no potatoes for me, of course, Coach-ety) and cole slaw (no cole slaw for me because EW) but now it turns out we're (they're) just having potatoes for dinner. The oven/broiler isn't working. FAIL! That's okay. I ate about 18 teensy weensy shrimp with cocktail sauce (which by the way, I'm pretty sure I could just eat plain by the spoonful), pineapple--but not a whole one this time, like not to the point where I feel like my whole tongue is an open wound--and almonds. Awesome.
Another story about this morning--so at the spinathon, they have about 10 spin bikes up front where the instructors go and then all the participants face the instructors. Well there are only up to 5 instructors and sometimes they like for random participants to join them up there. I feel like they think we're 5 and really would just adore to be up there in front of everyone. Like remember when you were little and were at a magic show, and really hoped and prayed that the famous magician would choose YOU to volunteer? And he'd call you up and you'd wave you all your friends and giggle? Well I think the spin instructors need to understand that we're adults (mature or immature) and we don't feel that way anymore. So just leave us alone and let us spin in peace, NOT in front of everyone else. My father was victim to being asked to go up there. He was wearing a black shirt, black shorts, and he had a cross necklace (throat clearing I'm sorry, I mean chain...necklace is not a manly thing, huh) hanging in front of it all. Phebe told me he looked like a reverend. Father Buck. Reverend Buck. So good.
Not a long blog as usual, but I'm trying to embrace shorter blogs. Might make me blog that much more. Stay classy, San Diego.
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