Today’s Daily Prompt, “Tell us about the last time you were really, truly jealous of someone. Did you act on it? Did it hurt your relationship?” doesn’t make me burst a blood vessel trying to dig into my memory’s archives: The last time I was jealous of someone was, miserably enough, all of 2 hours ago during my mid-day CrossFit class.
CrossFit and I have had an off-and-on relationship – the pounding doesn’t always agree with my egg-shell like knees – but with the arrival of winter in the Northwest, running outdoors has come to a temporary (it better be very temporary since it’s May, for Pete’s sake) standstill, and murderous indoor workouts once again prevail.
One thumbs up to taking the fun and games indoors, however, is that I can sport my cute and clean indoor-exercise-only shoes, but not even a pair of pink Nikes could get my inner green-eyed monster to simmer down in today’s CrossFit class. Having bumped up my running mileage to 40 miles/week, topped off with a handful of 30-minute lap-swimming sessions and weight-lifting classes, you would think I’d have the endurance of an antelope and the musculature of a stallion, but no. Not. at. all. Physically, I am no weakling, but no matter how many cruel crunches my stomach has been subjected to for, wait for it, years, I have yet to see just the tiniest little hint of a six-pack. Fit, I may be, but sculpted, I am not: This body is not willing to hop on the chiseled-as-a-roman-statue bandwagon.
Typically, my softie of a body and I go about life contentedly, but on the odd occasion, something or someone presents itself that triggers Softie and I to quarrel, and today the trigger was Morgan, a fellow 24-year old who doesn’t exercise half as much as I do and yet has the most six-packish six-pack known to CrossFitdom.
Morgan and I are friendly to one another – she has no idea my inner green-eyed monster is clawing for her mid-section every time we say our cheery hi-hellos – but I am not sure how much longer my relationship with myself will last if she and I keep crossing paths when she’s half-naked. Half-an-hour of CrossFit by her side usually calls for a zillion hours of self-therapizing, and despite eventually coming to terms with the fact that my abs, arms, bum and back just aren’t going to parallel hers unless I down egg whites and protein powder like water. And I’m just not willing to do that. Priorities, people.
Perhaps my green-eyed monster is born of envy more than jealousy, but either way, I don’t like it, and I don’t like it one bit. Morgan’s abs are krazy kool, but they’re not worth my inner-joy. Plus, I have wicked long fingers that any piano player would kill for, while Morgan’s got ten fumbling cocktail sausages fit for the plumbing. Take that, wink wink.
What makes you green with envy? How do you keep yourself grounded?