Tuesday, October 8, 2013

974. Here's What Happened to Me Today

I hired a personal trainer.  Before you think I’m some wealthy heiress, know this:  I suffered from a debilitating back injury over the summer.  After ER trips, X-rays, drugs, doctor’s visits, physical therapy, massage, and a renewed desire for a drink called a “zombie” (a nauseating-sounding blend of rum, brandy, pineapple juice, and orange juice—don’t judge), I figured I had earned a few sessions of personal training. 

Personal training would not only cure my back pain, I rationalized, it would inevitably turn me into Claudia Schiffer.  Or Heidi Klum.  Or Gwyneth.    

Anyway, things went great with my trainer until he announced that he expected me to be working out on some of our “off” days.  (Note to self: I always thought “off” meant “off”?)   Since I can only afford the trainer twice/week, that meant he expected me to work out at least three of the remaining days. 
Deflated, I asked him if it would be okay if I swam on one of those days. 

“Sure! I think that would be a great idea!” he enthused. 
The next morning at 5am sharp, I was in the pool swimming laps.  I had new goggles, a new swimcap, and a new attitude.  I was a female Michael Phelps. 

When I got out of the pool, I decided to chat with the lifeguard for a few minutes.  Since he would be the one saving my life if my future self happened to hit her head against the cement pool wall, I thought it would be good to at least know his name. 
It was a difficult Russian name and I immediately forgot it.  I changed the subject and asked him if he liked swimming.  (Gimme a break, it was early.  I couldn’t think of anything else to chat about.) 

He promptly replied, “I can’t swim.” 
Yikes!  The lifeguard can’t swim?! 

Realizing his error in language, he corrected himself:  “I am not allowed to swim while on duty.” 
At least I got my heart rate up.   

trifecta writing challenge/ exactly 333 words/ key word is "zombie"

Saturday, October 5, 2013

973. How It Feels to Beat a 9-Year-Old at Checkers

It feels great.  I’ll be honest:  if feels really great.  Especially when that particular 9-year-old happens to be my junior Einstein son, Tall. 

Everything this child touches turns to gold.  He is smart, funny, athletic, and has tons of friends.  He is also one of these people that instinctively understands how to play a game he has been introduced to mere moments before. 

I made the mistake of allowing him to sign up for his school chess club several weeks ago.  Ever since that time, all I hear is, “Mom, let’s play a quick game of chess!” 
And it is a quick game, since I find myself in check mate in a matter of 10 minutes, sometimes less. 

But he was not going to win at checkers.  No.  Checkers was mine. 
I taught him the basics and of course he beat me.  Twice.  But then something kicked in, some sort of primal need for redemption, and that was it.  He was half my size and one quarter of my age.  I could take him. 

My guys got across the board in record time.  “King me!” I cried out, with an inappropriate amount of glee. 
Next thing you know, I had Tall’s two remaining pieces backed into a corner.  I tried not to laugh a wicked little laugh, but I couldn’t help it.  I had not won a game against this child since that time he had the flu when he was three and he was just not up for Monopoly that day. 

Tall saw that he had no way out.  He abruptly stood up and intentionally upended the board, with all the pieces splattering across the table and the floor.   
I guess he gets his good sportsmanship from me.