Last summer, for the first time in my life, I decided to play the Olivia Newton John card and get all “physical” up in this joint. I challenged myself to run a triathlon. After 10 weeks of hardcore training, I did it.
*Insert music montage of my Winter of excess. Gorging on meaty, cheesy goodness and a sordid love affair with my Xbox*
*Cue early Summer conversation with a co-worker*
That one guy: “Hey Matt, you doing any triathlons this year?”
Matt: “Shit. I set a precedent.”
So here I am again. It’s the night before the big dance and I’m trained. I wouldn’t say well-trained. It’s more of a “Weeeeeell… I’m trained?” But I’m ready to go.
Pre-race checklist
Carb-tastic dinner of spaghetti? – Check!
Triathlon gear laid out? – Check!
Witnessed my wife eating an enormous piece of cheesecake? – Double Check!
Now it’s time for bed and I can’t sleep. Why, you ask? Because my next door neighbors in this lovely hotel have some sort of parrot-esque bird. And it’s having kittens. At least that’s what it sounds like. Constant. Birthing. Of Kittens. By a bird.
I shall try to force a stiff upper lip through this nonsense of epic proportions and get some shuteye. But if I drown tomorrow because I fell asleep mid-swim, don’t blame me. Blame the parrot-cats.
"Kill me. Dear God, kill me."
pity the fool