I was running the Oregon Zoo’s annual Turkey Trot – and I was struggling. As my brother and I looped back around and headed up the hill on our way to the zoo I saw something I would never forget.
The sun was gleaming through the frost-coated trees in just the right way, and there it was. A woman, in yoga pants. Pants that were much too small. Now that alone wasn’t the issue. The issue was that the fibers of her pants were being pulled in all directions. They were fighting to keep together, and losing. So much so that her black yoga pants took on a new look.
I was reminded of when you hold a $100 bill up to the light and you can see the water-mark of Benjamin Franklin – confirming your currency is not counterfeit. However, in this instance, the light shone through and unveiled an old-asshole that I was not hoping to see.
Let’s ignore the fact that I was in such bad shape that I was behind this woman. She seemed to be having a great time, and there I was, miserable. Was it because she was so much more comfortable than I was? It had to be the yoga pants.
I was running my thighs blood red, dwindling away in chafe city. I didn’t look, but I imagine that the inside of my legs took on the appearance of uncooked ground beef.
Yet, there she was, with her larger legs – producing more square footage of friction than I had. If you had put any tinder between her legs a fire would have started. Still, she was happily plodding along in comfort – despite her turd-cutter being on full display.
Exercising is hard enough. It becomes even harder when you are trudging behind someone, staring at their sphincter – without even giving your consent.
Finally we reached the peak of the hill, and soon the Turkey Trot was over. While I didn’t come away from the event victorious, I did have one big takeaway:
Comfort is king, and beauty is in the eye of the b-holer.