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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Race Report: According to “The Committee”

It has taken me a few days to get around to blogging a race report- I didn’t want to write the knee-jerk (and effectively jerk my knee into something’s metaphorical testicles) or write something put into an overly-positive perspective. And of course, I cannot simply write a race report! Blasphemy! What about the deeper meaning?!

Ergo, thus proceedeth a highfalutin and abridged recapitulation of Honu 70.3  Continue reading


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Exercise Isn’t a Cure-All… also The Queen Joan Ferguson

I’ve talked a few times about how exercise saves my pants. (Actually, no. I’m sure my pants are not pleased with the constant sweat saturation and then soap-bath. They probably would rather simply be pants.)

Yet, every single session isn’t an auto-mood boost, alas. For the first time since January, I quit a training session early, intentionally, and not from Bad Pain. I just couldn’t stop panicking and crying. I’ve had moments in training before, and I’m sure I’ll have more in the future. But I will say that the universe has a twisted sense of humor about these situations.

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Dastardly Shin Splint Raining On My Parade

This post has sat on my desktop for days; I think I was waiting until today’s appointment when, once again, I would hear a doctor tell me not to run.

And once again, I would ignore him.

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The Zone is a Lie; My Brain on Running

I’m not one of those blissed-out runners who flies over the pavement like someone spiked their nutrition gel with particularly excellent ecstasy.

Nor shall I ever be.

Fear keeps my feet turning over for miles down the road. I’m completely terrified. (And lo! Another indication that I am not entirely normal. Go figure.)

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Queering the What?! Lest We Assume

“You’re ‘queering’ the what?!” = what I imagine the immediate response to the blog title might be.

NB: I am not turning triathletes queer. (Although…*wink*)

Somewhere along the linguistic timeline, “queer” became a verb, not unlike how “adult” became a verb, but in far more scholarly and less whiny manner. Granted, I do not want to adult most of the time, but that neologism has become banal through undergraduate student overuse.

“Queer,” meanwhile, is still a confused term, and it damn well should be. It’s queer, after all. (Bad pun. Revel in it!)

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Resting Bitchface, ASL, and BPD

I have what some like to call a Resting Bitchface. When I’m simply sitting around in no mood in particular, I look like I’m brooding. I look like something is up. I look pissed. 

In frustration a few years ago I asked a friend why no one hit on me. Granted, that did not and does not bother me much, but I was still curious why it didn’t happen. I’m reasonably attractive. I have reasonable sized tits. What’s up? He told me: ” you just look… intimidating.” Answer: you have a Resting Bitchface.

I have little to no awareness of how my face appears when I’m not paying attention to it. 

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