It seems self-evident.
When shooting for a fierce and fabulous goal, one has no choice but to werq. (You know, like W.E.R.Q.: When Everything’s Right Quotient) But how can you werq when things don’t work?
I almost lost it today. Some may say that the mere fact I’m writing this means I actually did lose it. (Tomato tomahto). The truth is that I’ve really got a short fuse these days. After seemingly countless summer cocktail calorie-fests, International Beer Day, and the total breach, invasion, overrun, and collapse of the P90X regimen at the hands of my hefty hypoactivity, I am now running on less sleep, more workouts, less beers, and NO Cokes. As you can imagine, passing on a single Coke can take any addict from blobby to bratty in roughly the same time it takes a blob to justify just one more tiny tasty coke (hint: that’s NO time.).
So the short fuse was lit the minute I strode into the locker room and glared at the scale. Since I’m a week into training for the Austin Triathlon, a weigh-in is only appropriate, right? When what to my wondering eyes did appear – a marvel so marvelous I can hardly convey. Antimatter. That’s right. Antimatter was right there in my very own neighborhood YMCA, sitting right there on the very scale I was meant to mount. How do I know? Well, at first I wasn’t sure – naturally – there was nothing ON the scale to be seen. And yet! And yet the scale’s crossbar laid heavily down. There was weight on the scale though it appeared nothing was there! It could only be antimatter. Well either that or the damn thing doesn’t work The absolute last thing I want or need is 10lbs on the scale before I even step foot on it. (Yeah, I’m pretty sure it’s 10lbs, though it could be as much as 15). To you, scale, I ask: How can I werq if you don’t work?
Then the short fuse, sparked by the scale, crackled, popped, and burned dangerously down during the 87th power climb of spinning class this morning. As an aside, am I the only one who finds the power climb more of a power struggle? Like I am Bill Clinton and every time I veto a welfare reform by tackling a steep incline, there’s Newt Gingrich the Bike, throwing another one my way. Apropos of my struggle to overpower the climb, what is the deal with stationary bike shifting? How can it possibly be so complicated? When I want a resistance level of 12 (conservative tow-dipping in the pool of the power climb), I can get 11, I can get 13, but only minutes (MINUTES) of delicate diddling will coax the shifter to level 12. It’s not just the 12, either. The power climb could be in full swing, I could even be gaining the upper hand (think Clinton and Gingrich on that flight to Rabin’s funeral – I am snubbing the hell outta that hill) only to reach for another resistance increase, de-li-cate, del-icate-ly now, and WHAM. The shifter slams on two additional levels (TWO!) Bringing my climb to a grinding governmental shutdown. To you shifter, I ask: How can I werq if you won’t work?
It’s not just the scale and the shifter. It’s the night crew at the healthy fast food joint who lock up 17 minutes early forcing me to drive through Satan’s Salty Snacks at 9:13 on a weeknight against my best intentions. It’s the yoga teacher who dims lights, chimes chimes, oms oms, and starts class 10 min early on Saturday morning forcing me to get my weekend coffee decked uselessly in head-to-toe spandex. To everyone and everything coming between me and my When Everything Works Quotient I say:
Y’all bettah work!