A tough crowd

So I had some of the girls over last night, and eventually, after the usual gossip and miter saw discussions, we turned to reminiscing about last summer’s triathlon fun. Now, while all of them clearly recognize the greatness in their midst (me), on occasion the claws do come out a bit, though I’ve learned to take it all in stride. After all, smartassery and insults are the sincerest form of flattery, right?

First, talk turns to swimming in Lake Michigan:

Bridget: "Yeah, Heather, I’m glad you finally got a bright-colored swimcap! Man, you’d take off and suddenly you’d be off swimming a mile away. We all thought, where’d that Heather go?? Though, it was really funny when you’d get back after your swim and Tasha would still be on shore, trying to put her head under water."
Me: "Hey now, my baby lungs need time to get used to a 45-degree lake!"
Robyn: "Baby lungs, pfft. That old excuse. If you were any slower in the water, you’d be going backwards. Or drowning."
Me: "It’s a cultivated skill, okay? My GOAL is always to be last out of the water, because it’s so much fun PASSING all of your SLOW SORRY ASSES on the bike. So there."
Colleen: "Oh right, the bike. Hey, have you seen yet the “wall of fame” they have at Get a Grip? I think you’re grandfathered in at the #1 slot, since they figure they’ll never find someone to surpass you. Something about 'our favorite stupid customers.'"
Me: "You’re just jealous of the close relationship I have with my boys. Maybe they’ll like you enough someday to let you do direct deposit as well. And be part of their Christmas cookie exchange."
Colleen: "Close relationship – is that why they send you Get Well cards when they haven’t heard from you in a few weeks?"
Me: "Not anymore. Once I get Sálome, I’ll never be able to darken their doorstep again, out of sheer embarrassment. I mean really, they had to call the FELT guy to get this fixed! Now the whole world of bikedom knows that I’m a complete and total moron! Not that it’s really my fault. After all," I say, with inescapable logic, "why would they bother putting stickers on the bike if not for us to subsequently take them off? Duh! So yeah, no more GAG for me."
Bridget: "Oh, come now, why should this stop you? In the annals of Tasha Dumbosity, this is up there, but you’ve done a lot of goofy things. So why stop now?"
(Long discussion ensues as to all the Stupid Things Tasha Has Done, with much hilarity ensuing – among all of my so-called friends, that is. I was less amused.)
Me: "You’ll see, dammit. This is really nice of you all, by the way, to bring the knives out after I reveal my secret plan to win prize money at Rockman: paying someone $50 to crowbar the knees of everyone who beats me out of the swim, to lessen the competition."
Deanna: "Everyone who beats you out of the water? Wow, that’s going to be a LOT of people.......a LOT. Did I mention just how many people that would be?"

You see what I have to deal with on a daily basis. It’s okay though. When I come trudging in victorious having JUST missed placing 29th in my AG, I think I prove my point, naysayers be damned.

But at least I’m not the only one who has issues that provide fodder for such entertaining and witty repartee. There’s always Deanna as my back-up.

Me: "So the Tasha imitators are starting to come out of the woodwork – the Wall Street Journal had one of their articles yesterday where they compare different consumer goods, and this time they looked at different kinds of exercise equipment, e.g. a Bean thingie, a trampoline thingie, a Total Gym thingie. But get this – they actually found this device which consists of two jump rope handles...but no rope! They call it the “world’s first ropeless jump rope”! Umm, yeah, because then it’s not really a jump rope if there’s no rope, now is it? I mean, what kind of moron can’t figure out a jump rope?"
Deanna: "Ooh, that sounds neat, what’s it called again? Is there a website? I so totally can’t jump rope!"
Me: "What the hell do you mean? You turn, jump, turn, jump. I think they get trained seals to do it. It's like riding a bik.......oh."
Deanna, chattering on: "Can’t figure it out! Nope, too tricky, just can’t get the hang of it. I trip all over myself!"

Hmm.....I’m suddenly starting to see Deanna in a whole new light. Read: a gold mine of opportunity.

Clearly, there’s a whole world out there of potential “exercise equipment for dummies” that I, in my triathlon goddess shortsightedness, am failing to cash in on. This is billed as the rope “for people who trip.” Perhaps....a BOSU “for people with no core”, consisting of just a wooden plank? The possibilities are endless. I will add this to my future website, tricrapyouneed.com. So far I’m planning on selling laminated maps that consist solely of routes to ice cream shoppes, the patented assfan invention, for when you’re peeing in the woods and need to wave away gnats and mosquitos, and of course Big Blue Barrels. Deanna is a big fan, perhaps the biggest, of Drew Peterson, the guy who’s been leaving a trail of ex-wives and girlfriends in his wake, all stuffed in big blue barrels and dumped somewhere shady and remote. Thus, I’ve taken to threatening her with Big Blue Barreldom when she says or does anything to annoy me. Or when she beats me at anything. Essentially, I just lug a barrel with me every time I go anywhere with her. They’re not that expensive if you buy them in bulk.

Anyway - speaking of bikes and clumsy people, I inadvertently provided the good people of Sun City/Huntley with a bit of extra amusement today, as I went out to see my mother and grandmother. Grandma is now the proud owner of a 3-wheeled bicycle, which I immediately decided to take for a spin, to show off my superior bike handling skills. Of course, accustomed as I am to sleek perfect marvels of modern bike technology, I wasn’t quite prepared for the clown version of a bike – which was not only NOT exactly built to turn on a dime, but was also somewhat set up for my grandmother, who’s a goodly 8 inches shorter than me. So, yes, I am always willing to confess my occasional rare foible, so that my reader(s) can see that I too am “just like you” – and in this case, after zooming into the street while laughing uproariously at the little clown bike silliness, I tried to steer it back up her driveway and promptly rode into a snowbank. Swift, very swift. I guess I showed all the elderly Sun City residents how to get things done, huh?

To add to the final ignominity of this weekend:

There’s a standard rule of society that if someone says to you “no way, you look WAY too young to be such-and-such age!”, then you automatically and instantly have to say the same back to them, the words practically stumbling over themselves in their rush to leave your mouth. I don’t care if they look as old as Methuselah. Say. It. Anyway. Does no one have a grasp on proper etiquette these days? MLSF Kat’s friend Lynn, I am talking to you. All of this is even MORE so the case if someone is helping lug all your stuff up a three-story walk-up – or rather, doing all the lugging, good-naturedly no less, because you have a broken hip. But noooooo....instead we had the following conversation:

Me: "So how old are you anyway? MLSF Kat has said you were in your late 30s, which I can’t believe."
Lynn: "I’m 39, sigh."
Me: "NO WAY! OMG, that’s amazing, you seriously look like you’re about 25."
Lynn: "Nope, I’m hitting the big 4-0 next year, I can’t even believe it."
Me: "Ugh, don’t even talk to me about it. I’m having my birthday-which-shall-not-be-named soon too, in June."
Lynn: "Aha."
(silence)
Me, expectantly: "Umm, now YOU’RE supposed to express amazement, exclaim that there’s just no way I could possibly be anywhere near that age."
Lynn, giggling: "Tee hee, Tasha, you’re so funny!"
Me, gritting my teeth: "No, really, I’m serious. That’s how it’s done."
Lynn: "Oh my gosh, you’re silly. You look fine!"

To my credit, while I quickly parsed the word “fine” and noted that in no thesaurus does the word fine = young-looking, younger than young, youthful, etc., I did not reach over, open the car door, boot Lynn out and throw her crutches out after her. Yet.