Ultimate Coronary
I have begun playing in a recreational Ultimate Frisbee League on the weekends. I joined as part of a personal pact i made with myself to get more exercise on the weekend and to get in better shape before I managed to turn all 'What's Eating Gilbert Grape?".
"I am man. Hear me gasp for air!"
Little did I know that this was going to entail having a 47 year old single mother-of-three run my fat ass up and down the entire length of the playing field a zillion times until my peripheral vision exploded with bright flashes of light that probably played along in sync with my racing heart rate in my very own 'Coronary Symphony in D-minor'. This mother was fit! I bet she came straight from the gym where she spars with Leon Spinks. By the time the hour and a half Frisbee match was finished, she almost had to carry my unconscious lifeless body back to my car over her shoulder and then push it all the way home for me while my heart and lung rates returned to normal in the front seat.
It was like playing some sinister Steven King game of endurance or something. In the heat of battle, I was tempted to deliver a good 'ol dirty old-school chopblock to the back of this woman's knees in order to reestablish my dashed machismo. Bitch don't know how lucky she was to be not sidelined permantently.
Needless to say that I have a ways to go before I’m fit enough to run the entire length of the playing field without a Mars Bar dangling in front of my face on a string. As it is now, I’m requesting that league organizers set up an oxygen tent in the end zones so that I can reinflate my lungs after every point, and to have an Iron Lung available in the First Aid kit for emergency medical purposes if one of my lungs should ever happen to suddenly explode mid-field as I am chasing down a frisbee and huffing and wheezing like Dom DeLuise after a vigorous Taibo workout.
In the meantime, this lack of athleticism on my part does little for my struggling masculinity and ego. Especially since I could barely even manage to summon up enough brainpower to properly open my spill-proof bottle of Gatorade. Right off the bat; my opponents have the upper hand on me!
But I’ll show ‘em. I’ll get so fit that I’ll nbe chasing down frisbees and shagging them out of the air with my teeth like a happy schnauzer and racking up more scored points than a high school dropout at Donkey Kong. They’ll be able to crack walnuts on my abs by the time I’m finished and my ass will be so perfectly sculpted that it will bring artists to tears.
"I am man. Hear me gasp for air!"
Little did I know that this was going to entail having a 47 year old single mother-of-three run my fat ass up and down the entire length of the playing field a zillion times until my peripheral vision exploded with bright flashes of light that probably played along in sync with my racing heart rate in my very own 'Coronary Symphony in D-minor'. This mother was fit! I bet she came straight from the gym where she spars with Leon Spinks. By the time the hour and a half Frisbee match was finished, she almost had to carry my unconscious lifeless body back to my car over her shoulder and then push it all the way home for me while my heart and lung rates returned to normal in the front seat.
It was like playing some sinister Steven King game of endurance or something. In the heat of battle, I was tempted to deliver a good 'ol dirty old-school chopblock to the back of this woman's knees in order to reestablish my dashed machismo. Bitch don't know how lucky she was to be not sidelined permantently.
Needless to say that I have a ways to go before I’m fit enough to run the entire length of the playing field without a Mars Bar dangling in front of my face on a string. As it is now, I’m requesting that league organizers set up an oxygen tent in the end zones so that I can reinflate my lungs after every point, and to have an Iron Lung available in the First Aid kit for emergency medical purposes if one of my lungs should ever happen to suddenly explode mid-field as I am chasing down a frisbee and huffing and wheezing like Dom DeLuise after a vigorous Taibo workout.
In the meantime, this lack of athleticism on my part does little for my struggling masculinity and ego. Especially since I could barely even manage to summon up enough brainpower to properly open my spill-proof bottle of Gatorade. Right off the bat; my opponents have the upper hand on me!
But I’ll show ‘em. I’ll get so fit that I’ll nbe chasing down frisbees and shagging them out of the air with my teeth like a happy schnauzer and racking up more scored points than a high school dropout at Donkey Kong. They’ll be able to crack walnuts on my abs by the time I’m finished and my ass will be so perfectly sculpted that it will bring artists to tears.
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