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They Say It’s Good Luck

Apparently if I don’t write about things. People don’t believe they actually happened.

So, I got shit on by a bird. Tuesday. At yoga.

I was there at rooftop yoga. Which is generally cool. Because you can see the mountains surrounding the bowl that is Roanoke. From up on top of Center in the Square.

I’d gone to PlayFITStayFIT beforehand. To get my muscles good and warm. (Read: exhausted)

So we’re flowing through our practice. Stretching things that I didn’t even realize needed stretched. Relaxing. Feeling pretty good about the life.

And we get to the end. To shavasana. The one at the end where you lie lifeless on the mat. For a while. Like a corpse.

And I’m just feeling happy. And relaxed. And enjoying the tiny bit of breeze the melting earth is offering up.

And then I hear some birds…

And I look up…

At the birds flying directly over me…

And think, “how awful would it be to get shit on right now…”

Which is when I got shit on…

And I’m trying not to panic. And cause a scene. And disrupt everyone else’s corpsing.

But I just got shit on, you know? I need some camaraderie. Dammit.

And Rogue is in front of me. Kind of fidgeting around. The way she does. And I’m trying to get her attention. As I’m scraping shit off of me. With my shoe.

But also trying not to lose my shit. And be disruptive.

And she finally turns back. To make a joke about something.

No no. Dude. I just got shit on.

And she stares at me for a minute. I assume processing whether she wants to be supportive or smartass in this moment.

She split the difference.

“…they say that’s good luck…”

Hey thanks.

So, that happened.

But also, I’m spending my precious summer trying all the things. Because once August hits. My life gets taken over by school. And cross country. Again.

So, I accidentally signed up for Krav Maga Roanoke’s Strike HIIT class. Wednesday night. Right after PlayFITStayFIT leg day.

(I was trying to sign up for Friday. When I wouldn’t be coming off of J-Vicious torture. But I messed up. And homegirl at KM wasn’t having my whining. And said to come anyway. I’d be fine…)

And first of all. Leg day. Was song day. Some bullshit J-V hadn’t tried before.

Like, we all already hate Sally. We hate her. But when you have to do 50 additional squats. After all the bullshit squats she and ole Miss Lucy made you do. And then those bitches have the nerve to come back again. For hamstring curls.

Where you’re using a 30lb weight. Because J-V loves to be hated even more than Sally. And X picks up a 25.

I swear to fuck if you let him use a 25 when I’m over here with this 30…

(I’m nothing if not vindictive…)

(He went back for a 35…)

(Also, we call him X because of the sounds he made J-V make before class. When I was just trying to mind my own business. I’ll spare you the details. Because I’m sticking with my R rating in this blog. But it was uncomfortable. And also a little arousing. I don’t know. It was all so confusing…)

Anyway, that bullshit sufficiently exhausted my legs.

So that when I ended up over at Krav Maga. And walked in. And dude said, “Sunshine?!” A little too excitedly. I almost walked back out.

I know what it means when fitness dudes get excited to see people.

But I hobbled on into the Strike HIIT room with him. Where KM Chick welcomed me. And gave me some loaner gloves. And explained how shit worked.

Psht. Not my first time kickboxing, honey. I got this.

“Also, don’t worry if it hurts a little bit. A lot of people bleed the first time.”

Ok, but…

That’s what he said…

And. Ok. So I don’t know what fitness people’s resistance to easing into shit is.

But there was no prep time.

Thirty seconds in and I couldn’t see through the sweat streaming into my eyes.

The first round of kicks and all I could think about was freaking Sally.

Then homegirl said, “now squats!”

And then looked at me. And her smartass added, “right after leg day, huh?”

Yeah, no. We’re not bonding right now. I’m focused on not cramping up into an immovable ball of pain here in this pool of sweat I’ve created under myself.

But the punching. Fuck I love the punching.

“So, you’ve done this before…”

Yeah. I have. And I need more of it.

I was loving it so much. That I wasn’t even worrying about the constant movement the too large fingerless gloves were doing on my hands. Just gradually tearing all of the skin off all of my knuckles. With every movement.

So that by the end of class. As I handed the gloves back to KM Chick…

Hey. Here. I sprayed that stuff on these. But you’re probably gonna just wanna burn them. They’ve got all of my DNA just all up in there.

(That’s also what he said.)

So I went to Dick’s. To buy Fall Risk and I some actual gloves. That actually fit. In hopes of protecting both of us from this.

So tonight’s class ought to be just full of pleasantness. And pain. And blood. So much blood.

I can’t pull my own hair up. Because the hair ties just rip all of the protective scabbing right off my fingers.

And I need that scabbing.

So I’m gonna have to ask whatever human I see first to manage that task for me.

Do you think that’s a service a hair dresser would charge me for?

But go ahead and tell me how getting shit on by a bird is good luck.


Just reading and writing and running and looking for my happy place.

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