It turns out lots of people spend time at the pit on Christmas Eve. For the last week most of the regulars I’ve mentioned have been absent, but it is the holiday season and folks are traveling, shopping and eating stuff they only dream of the rest of the year. This past week has seen a noticeable increase in college and high school softball players, Daughter #2 included, who can see the season fast approaching and are making the push to get in shape for it. Daughter #2 is looking forward to her final season and has something to prove. As the only senior on the team she doesn’t want to be looked at as the old woman by the first year players coveting her position, plus there is the desire to end her softball career with a bang, or at least without injury.
I try not to be intimidated by the influx of young women in their school t-shirts, shorts and knee socks. Once upon a time, long, long ago, in a land far, far away, I looked like that, sort of. It’s a vague memory, and I’m pretty sure I didn’t make it up so I would have something to remember fondly in my old age. Anyway, I started out my Christmas Eve by climbing a skyscraper, all seventy stories of it. I was motivated and managed to shave a whole minute off my usual time to accomplish this insane feat. I distracted my brain from the pain shooting through my thighs by watching the C +10 with the red hair from a cheap bottle do ‘wax on, wax off’ chai tea or tie chee, or tie me up I’m insane moves. I’m not sure why she comes to the pit to do these motions, alone. I’ve seen groups of people in the park doing this stuff and thought it would be fun to push one of them over and watch the whole group topple over like dominoes. If you’re going to do this alone, why not do it at home? Why put on form fitting clothing and whacky socks and go stand in the front of dozens of people who have nothing better to do than watch you and go through these motions? I’m comforted by the thought that at least I’m doing the same thing as most of the peeps here, so they have no real reason to be watching me. This is my rationale; do not try to tell me otherwise.
I switch to the half rack and crazy woman is still doing the shifting statue thing only now she is wearing a blindfold. I tell you, you just can’t make up this kind of stuff. I shift into high gear with a little Born to Be Wild encouraging me to explode into space. I think this woman may be in space all ready, so I don’t know if I really want to go there, but I close my eyes and shuffle my feet faster anyway. When next I look up she’s on the floor, slipping jingle bells, yes, jingle bells, around her ankles and wrists and donning a Santa hat. I’m wondering where the back door to this place is so I can make a quick getaway if she starts pulling things from her backpack, but she hoists the pack over her shoulder and heads to the front door. I breathe out a sigh of relief. I know it sounded more like a dying person gasping for breath, but I swear it was a sigh, and keep on shuffling.
Daughter #1 and Daughter #2 are wimping out and have been on the lounge chair bikes for a few minutes, so I wrap it up with a little Carole King. I’m feeling like a natural woman and wondering if that foul smell is coming from me. I’m pretty sure it’s not; after all I’ve been coming here for nearly four weeks and haven’t had a deodorant malfunction yet. I suspect the guy next to me and decide it’s time to call it a day. My children are pedaling, but I’m pretty sure they are just waiting for me to call it quits and are sitting there so it looks like they’re still going strong. I know them too well. I birthed them after all. I know what they are up to. I grin and ask if they’re ready to go. It’s all I can do to keep up with them as they sprint to the locker room.
In the car they roll the windows down. I think this is a response to the fact that it’s nearly seventy degrees outside rather than the way I smell. Just to be on the safe side I roll my window down too. The pit is closed tomorrow so I’ll have a forced day off. After twenty-seven days in a row, which is twenty-seven more days than I’ve ever worked out in my life, I guess I deserve a day off. I’m thinking it’s time for some In and Out Burger to celebrate, so off we go.
Merry Christmas to all, and to all a goodnight. (Thank you Clement Moore.)