During P.E. class in fifth grade, we timed our 100m dash in the parking lot of good ol' Palisades School.
I finished last in my class of 30.
Dead last.
Which I couldn't understand. I was an athletic kid. I played club level traveling soccer and ASA softball. I ran the hell out of the soccer field for 90 minutes at a time; I was the all-star pitcher on our champion little league team.
But for the life of me, I could not sprint. I was sloooooooow.*
Thursday, April 18, 2013
Wednesday, April 3, 2013
Walking a Tightrope
A conversation that happened with a couple in my apartment building the other day:
Man: "Excuse me, but I have to ask, are you a trainer? My wife and I always see you in work out gear, and you are in great shape."
Me: "ha, no - I'm an attorney."
Man [unnecessarily flummoxed]: "Really? Oh, we were going to ask you to train us."
My reaction to this was initially to be flattered, but then I though, HOLD UP - does that mean that I always look like a slob in warm ups and headbands? This thought was then followed by "shit, maybe I missed my calling."
Man: "Excuse me, but I have to ask, are you a trainer? My wife and I always see you in work out gear, and you are in great shape."
Me: "ha, no - I'm an attorney."
Man [unnecessarily flummoxed]: "Really? Oh, we were going to ask you to train us."
My reaction to this was initially to be flattered, but then I though, HOLD UP - does that mean that I always look like a slob in warm ups and headbands? This thought was then followed by "shit, maybe I missed my calling."
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