Mad Dash of Shame

There comes a time in every mature adults life where they must endure some single catastrophic event that ultimately humbles them enough to remind them that no matter how bad things can get that they could definitely be worse…a whole lot worse.

And I had just such a near tragic epiphany only yesterday. Yes, if you really want to take yourself down a notch and remind yourself how quickly things can spiral out of control simply try shitting yourself; because nothing says “I’m not in control of my environment” like a grown man standing on his front porch with his pants full of crap.

I must have done some really bad things in my past for fate to suddenly turn around and deliver such a lethal kidney shot to my already damaged ego.

And here I thought things had been going pretty well. I’m still working out and training hard, I’m eating healthily and I’m trying to look after myself. So how then did I end up sprinting down the middle of my street with my butt cheeks clenched tight to prevent the fecal matter from dripping down my pant leg?

If I knew that healthy living was going to come at the risk of spontaneously shitting yourself in mid-dash for your apartment complex then I might have reconsidered that gym membership. Likewise, I might have to ease up on the vegetable salads and bean dips in the future.

I suppose the glass-is-half-full attitude is that because I’ve now become accustomed to running in the evenings I can honestly say that the whole incident could have turned out worse had my mad dash to the front door been any slower. It could have escalated into a total Orange Alert situation instead of the minor toxic leak it was.

Who knew that the “Mechanics of Running” workshop I’ve been attending on Tuesday nights would prove so handy?

Nipping "Jogger's Nipple" In the Bud

I woke up today with a most peculiar ailment.

Now, I’m used to the aches and pains associated with living out an active lifestyle – particularly now that I’ve begun training in earnest for triathlons – but what I woke up to this morning transcends any level of comfort I had for enduring any sporting injury. You see, I woke up this morning with throbbing achy nipples. And I’m not talking about any slight discomfort here; I’m talking about a nagging pain as if I had spent the entire night breastfeeding a litter of baby badgers.

WTF?!

As it turns out, after a little investigation on the Internet I learned that I am in fact suffering from an acute case of what has become known as “jogger’s nipple”.

Oh goodie.

If having to take special care of the plantar fasciitis in my feet and the bursitis in my wrist – not to mention the developing arthritis in my elbow – is not enough, now I also have to worry about icing my man tits too?

I’m just not prepared to deal with this jogger’s nipple or any other nipple-related injuries for that matter! I think it’s time I rethink this whole healthy living thing!

After all, the remedies – albeit easy enough – just don’t sound too enticing either. Most informational sporting injury sites I visited simply suggested the wearing of and-aids on my nipples when I go for a run.

Pardon? That doesn't sound very masculine does it?

If I remember correctly that didn’t turn out too well for Janet Jackson either did it?

Shit, if I have to start putting band-aids on my nips I may as well just go full hog and get myself a pacifier and take to wearing sparkly leotards and face paint while I’m at it.

Sheesh!