Queering the Triathlete (and Other Discomforts)

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


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A Day in the Life

A satirical (or not) description of a typical day.

This isn’t a particularly good or bad day but something I’d expect on an uneventful and average day for my spoonie/zebra/triathlete/*cough* butt.

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An Error of Magnitude

I operate on the principle of “More”: Faster. Stronger. Smarter. Better. Just….more. Always more. Take more classes. Work more jobs. Volunteer more time. It’s like someone hooked Dory on speed and told her to just keep swimming. GANGWAYYYYYY!! I don’t know where I’m going but by god I am going to gogogogo!

I think the truth is that I’m afraid of what will happen if I stop.

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I Refuse To Bonk

“I refuse to bonk. …and I refuse to let the asshole voice my head tell me that I haven’t put in the hours and earned the right to compete in this race.”

Okay, who the fuck is in my head, because I’m pretty sure I didn’t just say that. My self-talk usually contains copious references to oft-covered parts of the anatomy and the accompanying rude activities. (My belly button sometimes steals sweater fuzzies! What were you imagining?) When I think about an upcoming Ironman triathlon, a large part of me starts shouting that those empty hours in the saddle and on the pavement are going to be wretched and asks how the fuck, kid, are you going to find the mental badassery to keep going?

In all honesty, I remain shocked by that bit of inspirational chatter, my very own St. Crispin’s Day speech. Maybe I’ll grow some shaggy Kenneth Branagh hair and purchase a tunic.

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Metta Practice as a Borderline

Many different sorts of meditation retreats are available to the sadistic folks who want to spend several days alone with their own mind: vipassana, jhana, zen… the list goes on, and some are more specific than others.

For example, I attended a retreat this week focused especially on cultivating metta. Translation: Love Everything.

Well, it was 99.99% successful! Continue reading