Okay, seriously though, turn your enthusiasm down. No means no.
It won’t be fun. Stop it, really; you’re not going to pressure me into this.
No, it’s not that I’m afraid—I just don’t think my body could take the pounding.
Your persistence won’t pay off. No, and for the last time, I will not do a summer triathlon with you under any conditions. I don’t care how many empty promises of “camaraderie,” “meeting new people,” or “positive body image” you make. I don’t care if you think you can renovate my dilapidated physique into a cut, chiseled warrior who’s capable of dropping jaws and panties from distances up to fifty feet.
I won’t be hustled into hustling some god-awful distance just to be able to say I did it. Please, let me just revel in my inactive disgustingness this summer and all summers.
Of course it’ll be easy for you, you’ve been training for months. It’ll be nothing but a literal exercise in humiliation for me (1). By the second mile I’ll be exhausted, embarrassing myself while the children and the preggers race by me. Frankly, it’ll be tough for me to stomach such humiliation sober.
Your blind faith in me is misguided; it makes me think you haven’t been listening. A triathlon, the outdoors, non-eating-inspired sweat—that’s not me. I’m not going to turn my back on my lifetime of apathetic hobbies (2), like personal nacho parties and spirited Internet message board debates. Trying new things has its place, such as at buffets or when I realized I’d become desensitized to all of the porn on one particular website. Embracing fitness would betray the ethos of sloth and immediate gratification I’ve been cultivating for years; it’d be like a democrat suddenly buying a handgun or a republican contributing to NPR.
Yeah, of course you order after me and only get water and a side salad after I asked for my own 60oz pitcher and cheese platter.
Go on. Justify your paltry, un-American order. You keep prattling on about gym memberships, trainers, and sporty wicking shirts that, presumably, cost buku bucks. I don’t want to spend money on that (3). Listen, buddy, I’m not here to tell you how to prioritize your finances, but when I find that I have a spare $100 I’ll spend it on 100 tacos, not fancy bike shorts that aerodynamically contour my genitals to minimize wind resistance.
Please just stop your belabored pitch and your shoveling of un-dressed salad leaves into your craw. I don’t run, I don’t own a bike, and I’ve used secondhand menstrual cramps to get out every swimming lesson for my entire life.
Okay, I get it; you can’t stop. Triathlons and marathons are the defining characteristic to your existence and you have literally nothing else to talk about. I don’t want to turn into that (4). I wouldn’t be able to stand it if everything in my life revolved around training, competing, and collecting of bumper stickers. It’s a slippery slope and I won’t drink your Kool-Aid, or, more aptly, electrolyte-infused sports drink.
Fine, I’ll just do the adult thing: drink the rest of this pitcher to be able to tolerate the rest of this lunch.
Justin Gawel is an adult baby from Michigan whose articles appear on BroBible.com most weeks. Look for more of his writing, his BroBible archive, and his updates at www.justingawel.com or follow him @justingawel on Twitter.
[Image via ShutterStock]