Christmas is trying to kill me.
It’s not something that alarms me, mostly because it happens every year. It starts a week before Thanksgiving. My kids begin my slow, torturous march toward certain death by finding the All-Christmas station while we are in the car. Some awful Kenny Rogers or Back Street Boys song comes on, and I can feel my brains leaking out of my skull.
It’s like I’m Jason Bourne, and Christmas is like one of the Assets that becomes activated by Treadstone. The Asset is activated via cell phone, and then he pursues his target (me) relentlessly. What’s an Asset, you ask? Seriously? If you don’t know what an Asset is, you need to ask Santa for the Bourne Trilogy for Christmas. Here you go, some examples of Assets:
This guy chased Jason and Marie in the French countryside.
I’m pretty sure this guy was in Germany, and Jason blew up his house with a magazine and a toaster.
This is Desh. Morocco. Nasty.
Can’t catch me, bitches.
Okay, it’s not that bad. But Christmas is not my favorite time of the year. It starts way too soon, requires way to much effort, contains way too much sugar, and is entirely too expensive. All of that being said, I feel that it is still my God-given right as a red-blooded American to write a letter to Santa. I’m sharing it with you so that you don’t ask for the same stuff, and that we don’t show up at Escape the Cape in June all matchy-matchy:
Hi! How are you? How is Mrs. Claus, the elves, and the reindeer? I’m doing fine. I had a pretty good year. A couple of trips to the age-group podium, lots of fun open-water swimming, and plenty of great times with all my triathlon pals, especially Team WBTU. I started a blog. Some really nice people read it, and that makes me happy.
Okay, here’s my list. I hope I don’t sound too greedy. You don’t need to get me all of it.
- Floss, cigarettes, and matching socks (for my New Years’ resolutions).
- A new left leg. If that’s not possible, I would love a sports medicine physician who is curious enough to figure out what is wrong with my left leg. And he’s NOT allowed to send me to physical therapy.
- A coach. After an entire year of training on a whim, it’s time to get back to business. I’m losing some of my mediocrity sharpness. I’d like a year’s worth of coaching from Jason at ETA Coach. Jason is the best because his training plans are evidence-based and all science-y, because he is always available to answer my questions, and because I can destroy him on the basketball court. This keeps him humble.
- Some new Paincave episodes that are “old school”. I want to see Lance and Jan and “the look” and cobblestones and Pyrenees and Alps and EPO-fueled battles.
“Well? Are you coming? Because I just felt my 6 a.m. dose kick in.”
- Heated bike shoes. Do they make those? I need those to keep riding outdoors. Everything is warm but my feet.
- And my nose. My nose is cold, too. A nose warmer.
Well, that pretty much covers it, Santa. You’re the best. Good luck on Christmas Eve. I’ll leave your regular treat for you under the tree.
The Mediocre Triathlete xoxoxoxo