Queering the Triathlete (and Other Discomforts)

A Melancholy Zebra determined to strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.


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Mindful Speech and Modern Flakes

“Yeah, of course. I’ll call you this weekend.”

You smile a little to yourself, pleased that you and Cool Person will finally get the chance to hang out and that you’ll certainly be getting out of your apartment this weekend. When your pool friends ask how your weekend went, you’ll respond, “It was great!” instead of the usual forced smile and half-shrug with “I just relaxed, watched some TV, caught a breather” when you know damn well that you’ve been taking that breather for quite some time.

So you keep your phone a little closer all week, but it refuses to buzz. You send an innocuous text on Thursday afternoon of: “Hey! So, what are you thinking for the weekend?” No buzz. Not wanting to be a pain in the ass, you wait. It isn’t until Sunday afternoon that you give up and throw some pizza bites in the oven.

They forgot.

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I Screwed Up My Retreat

How does one screw up your own retreat, you may ask? Well. You can’t.

A retreat is an act of withdrawing. Nobody says how that withdrawing is supposed to work or what it’s supposed to produce. It just is. One withdraws and sees what happens. (Or, more specifically, one meditates.)

But I did screw up: I went into my meditation retreat with expectations. (How dare I?!) And I ended up experiencing one of the top ten most shocking moments of my life to date.

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