I hate running outside in the -30 degree weather, so I got a membership at the community league in our neighborhood and started swimming in the evenings.  It was a great workout and didn’t require me to wear all of the cold weather gear that I owned.

Then people started asking questions.  “What are you training for?”

My mouth opened and what came out shocked even me.  “Umm…a triathlon.”

Apparently I was ashamed about my desire to wear size 8 pants and completing a triathlon sounded so much better.  Before I knew what was happening, most of my friends and family heard that I was going to compete in a triathlon

I found myself cross training, weight lifting, and completing workouts that involved swimming, biking, AND running.  That’s the thing with words…once they are out there, you can’t get them back.  So I decided to go for it.  After all, how hard could it actually be?  Right?

The big day came in the middle of summer and was sunny and full of promise.  I was grouchy and full of fear.  I braided my hair, donned my Speedo swimsuit and biking/running outfit, and begrudgingly got in the car.

Upon arrival, I encountered hundreds of spandex clad people excitedly jumping around and stretching.  I went directly to the tent to pick up my race package and have a strange man use the biggest sharpie I have ever seen in my life to write my race number, 803, on my calves and arms.

What the heck have I gotten myself into?!

After being branded, we were herded like cattle down to the waterfront where I got news that there were leeches in the lake.  My stomach was already queasy and the toast that I had for breakfast threatened to come up as an unexplainable fear gripped my heart.  I started to look for an escape route, but ducking under the pylons and running at top speed past my husband and best friend would probably be noticed, so I tried to breathe while I waited for the race to start.

Before the swim....oh so nervous!

When the starting gun finally went off, all of the women aged 24 – 29 ran towards the leech infested water like their lives depended on it.  After avoiding being trampled, I jogged cautiously towards the waterfront and dove into the very shallow lake.  The water broiled with body parts and after a near kick to the head and getting a bird’s eye view of a very large armpit, I decided to hold back.  I waited in the ankle deep, leech infested silt for the crazed athletic women to swim by before I started up again.

To my immediate dismay, I couldn’t see a darn thing in the water!  It was like sticking your head into a bowl of chocolate pudding.  Panic set in and I employed the doggie paddle while my mind feverishly worked out a solution.  I started to hear a high-pitched whine and then realized I was the one making the noise.  I was officially hyperventilating and even the doggie paddle was too much.  I didn’t want to be disqualified, so I employed a panic inspired back float.  While looking up into the sky, wondering what the world I was going to do, the heads of two men in a canoe came into my view.

Two Men in a Canoe:  “Miss, are you ok?  Would you like us to help you?”
DL: (awkwardly treading the waist deep water) YES!  But wait!  Does that mean I am disqualified?
Two Men in a Canoe:  Well, yes…but if you’re struggling, perhaps we should take you out.
DL: (tears starting to fill up the goggles) I have worked so hard to get here!!  I have to finish.  I have to keep going.  Can you just row next to me, just to make sure I don’t die?
Two Men in a Canoe: Well…umm, there are a lot more people in the race and we have to watch all of them.  Uhh…we can check on you later though…
DL:  (in a very wobbly voice) Ok….thank you?
Two Men in a Canoe: And by the way, you’re floating off course.  You’re going to want to go that way….

The longest swim of my life ensued.  Battling panic, hyperventilation, and being lapped by a group of men swimmers took every single ounce of energy that I had.  Jon and Nancy were forced to watch a floundering woman use a doggie paddle and back float method to complete a swim that took 6 times longer than it should have.

When I finally emerged victorious from the leech infested, waist deep lake I could barely walk.  There were three canoes with men paddling alongside of me, cheering me on.  It was the most cheerleaders I have ever had for one of the most embarrassing moments of my life.

I hobbled over to the transition area to get ready for the bike.  Most people pull on shorts and get biking.  I plopped to the ground, ate a granola bar, and drank a ton of water.  There was no active recovery happening at this point, just relief that I was still alive.

The very hilly bike ride was surprisingly uneventful.  I made good time and even passed some people.  It felt good to not need any supervision to complete this leg of the race.

I entered the run tired, but the finish line was visible.  I was actually going to live through this adventure!  Much to the surprise of my athletic husband, I took off with a fresh burst of energy.  He was so impressed by my sudden energy that he decided to run alongside of me and interview me on video.  His focus was on me and not the street signs that were on the road.  Suddenly he ran head first into one and went down.  Blood was coming from his temple and the medical team was called.

I just kept running.  I mean, what was I supposed to do?  I had already lost 40 minutes in the swim, I didn’t want to lose more time in the run.  I decided that Jon would understand.

Sore, tired, and somewhat demoralized, but almost done!

He was fine and before I knew it, he was running alongside of me again.

Crossing the finish line was one of the most glorious feelings in the world.  I completed a huge feat and lived.  Sure, there was no one else crossing the finish line with me, but who cares?  I finished.

We enjoyed the rest of the hot summer day and watched the professional tri-athletes complete the course.  None of them used the doggie paddle / back float method to complete the swim.

That evening I used a strong soap to wash the ‘803’ off of my arms and calves.  Within about 30 seconds it became very obvious that I should have applied waterproof sunscreen that morning.  I was VERY burnt.  Did you know that sharpies are a great sunscreen? ‘803” was branded into both of my upper arms and calves.  Due to the way they wrote the numbers it actually looked more like ‘BOB’ than ‘803’.

Sunscreen really is a great invention....

The stiffness in my legs, especially my left leg was intense after the race.  The next morning I could barely walk without screaming in pain.  That wouldn’t have been enough to keep me from work, but I couldn’t even put my left heel on the ground and my calf was the size of a small basketball.

This didn’t seem like normal triathlon wear and tear, so off to the hospital I went.

I hobbled into the ER and waited.  Then I continued to wait 6 hours while random people with very random illnesses came in.  Some even came in with buckets of specimens to show the admitting clerk in an effort to gain quicker access to a doctor.  I just looked away and hoped they would go away.

There was concern that I had a blood clot, so I was sent for an ultrasound.  Have I mentioned that I am ticklish?  Screaming out in painful laughter while an ultrasound tech is shoving an ultrasound wand in your leg joint is apparently frowned upon.  I just couldn’t help it.  It was either laugh or cry, so I opted to laugh and laugh quite loudly.

Due to my big mouth I got crutches and a cast, a torn calf muscle, and a summer of strangers asking me, “Who’s Bob?”.

THIS is not size 8 pants!

Honesty really is the best policy.  Next time someone asks me something, I am going to just tell the truth even if it’s as ridiculous as ‘Size 8 pants”.

When my left eye finally cracked open, I saw three blurry numbers glaring back at me.

5:27

Apparently it was time to get up. In a moment of weakness, I had promised a girlfriend that I would meet her at the YMCA at 6:30 to go for an early morning run.

The only part of my body that was able to move was my left arm as it slapped the snooze button with authority.

Eight seconds later I was back into a solid REM cycle.

5:36

The loud voice of my favorite radio personality, Garner Andrews, was suddenly blaring in my ear. In that moment he was no longer my favorite.

I dragged my lazy self out of bed and finally opened both eyes. It wouldn’t do to be late for my early morning run. After all, today was my girlfriend’s first day back from a seven week absence due to injury.

As we ran in the cool -12 Celsius weather we caught up on each other’s lives. We shared the joys, trials, and funny moments since we had last seen each other.

Due to her injury, she was much slower than her usual pace; but it didn’t bother me at all. There have been many times when I was the slower one. The important thing was that we were out running.

You can’t do life alone; it is meant to be run together.

Who do you run the path of life with? Who makes sure you get your lazy self out of bed in the morning? Who are you sharing your life with, no matter what the pace?

When you do, you will find yourself doing things you never thought possible.

• Don’t work out to lose weight, eat to lose weight.
• Work out to shape your body into what you want it to be.
• If it’s a fruit, vegetable, or you can kill it; eat it.

I immediately implemented the Primal Eating plan. I went home, baked some brownies, and KILLED them.

Then I felt bad. For the next 3 days leading up to my first training session I followed the eating plan without fault. An hour before I left to get my muffin top’s butt kicked, I consumed a heaping plate of spring mix, bell peppers, cucumbers, tomatoes, and half an avocado. I was stuffed and proud of myself.

I went to the gym early to warm up so that I wouldn’t pull anything during the training session. The gym was freezing, so I kept my sweat pants and warm up jacket on during my brisk jog. At the one-mile point on the run I was on the verge of heat stroke. In order to cool down, I attempted to strip off the outer layer of clothing while running.

Word of advice: Press pause on the treadmill before taking off any warm up clothing. It results in less near death experiences.

We started the training session, which turned out to be a circuit of weight lifting with running mixed in. I anxiously completed the first exercise and started to feel rather nauseated. I really, really wanted to do well.

Then came the step-ups.

I was pouring sweat and we were only 3 minutes into the work out. Upon completion of the step-ups I started to see black dots and had to sit down. Then lay down.

My trainer looked quite concerned. I looked quite pale, deathly pale.

I drank some water and tried to get a grip.

Muffin Top Slayer: Are you ok? Do you need some Gatorade? You look really pale.
DL: I’m good. I just need a minute. GOSH.  Apparently I am totally out of shape.
MTS: It’s always eye opening for people, but I am surprised seeing how you workout every day. What did you eat today?
DL: I did really well. I even had a huge salad an hour ago.
MTS: Ahh…that’s the problem. You should eat a piece of fruit before a work out. Here eat my apple.

I sheepishly ate the Gala while sitting on an exercise bike and chatted about random things.  The black spots slowly disappeared and five minutes later I felt like a new woman. I completed the rest of the work out like a woman on a mission and felt fabulous at the end.

Another valuable lesson learned from the school of hard knocks. Eat an apple a day to keep the ambulance away!

Can you only imagine the chaos that would have ensued if I had fainted? Am I the only one that these things happen to?

Lately, I am totally irresponsible.  I’m not doing crazy things likes shopping for shoes every day or anything.  I am merely a night owl.  At about 8:00 I find myself getting sleepy, and then at about 8:15 I get a huge burst of energy.

This is when I clean the house, write proposals, catch up on email, knit a sweater, tile my kitchen, install a toilet, or bake large quantities of brownies to eat that evening.  I find myself wide awake and coming up with amazing ideas, only to find it’s 1 am.

So I go to bed.  And lay there thinking about my latest great idea, wondering why I am still awake and if the alarm clock will understand I don’t actually hate it when I hit it for the 15^th snooze when it rings in 4 hours.

Night Owl-itis is a vicious cycle to get in.  I see no end in sight as I am merely starting up for the evening.  Pan of brownies anyone?

HELP!

The mountains are absolutely gorgeous this time of year, so I was easily convinced to go for a run in them with my friends despite their superior fitness.

Gorgeous town nestled in the foothills.

Halfway through the run, they noticed I was lagging behind.  They slowed down to let me huff and puff my way to them.  At that point I realized, despite the gorgeous view, I had to let them go on without me.

I bravely accepted the key for the condo and headed back the way I came.  My girlfriend let me know the condo was on 6^th and 3^rd.  Ave, Street, Boulevard?  Heck as if I knew or asked for that matter!  So I just kept running…wondering when I needed to turn.

Unfortunately for me, I did not pay attention to the path we took.  I had been enjoying the mountains and river whenever I was able to take full breath in.  After about 20 minutes on the journey back, I found myself on a lonely path with some strange men on it.  My heart jumped into my throat.

To avoid being raped and pillaged while running without a phone, ID, or any sort of defense mechanism; I quickly pulled a switchback.

Now completely lost, the beauty of the mountains mocked me as I ran about wondering where in heavens name I was.  A peppy looking young blonde wandered onto the path, so I asked her for directions.

DL – Hello.  Can you tell me how to get to 6^th and 3^rd?
Peppy Looking Young Blonde – Ummm…no.  I have lived here my whole life, but have no idea where that is.  Is that by the park?
DL – Not too sure.  I am totally lost and just need to get back to the condo before my girlfriends arrive back.  I have the key.
PLYB – I can’t help you.  I don’t know any of the street numbers.

Ok, Canmore is a very small mountain town.  How is it possible that a life long resident wouldn’t know the street numbers of where she lives?

Somewhat frantic at this point, I ran through the trees and into the town only to scare a nice looking couple.  I can only imagine that the frazzled, sweaty, lost DL isn’t a woman you want to encounter on a romantic walk.  They also lived in the town but had no concept of addresses, only landmarks.

I finally used my own navigating skills to get back to the condo using a new route, without the help of any mountain-esque people.  As I turned the corner after my jaunt through most of the town, I saw my girlfriends about 800 meters ahead of me heading down the home stretch to the condo.

Out of breath, tired, and embarrassed, I started to close the gap while they cooled down.  We arrived at nearly the same time.  I was completely worn out while they looked energized and happy.

All I could do was blame the happy, directionally challenged people of the mountains for my tour of the town on my way back to the condo while gasping for air.

Now I know; if you can’t keep up…maybe you shouldn’t go in the first place.  No matter how fantastic the view is!

For the first time in my life, I have suffered from a lingering back problem that persisted throughout the whole summer. When a person lives in the arctic as I do, the summer is the time to live! As soon as the snow starts to melt, we throw on shorts and tank tops and start enjoying the outdoors with gusto. It’s as though we are finally able to breathe and feel it all the way to the bottom of our lungs. Edmontonians start running, walking, cycling, picnicking, bbq-ing, and playing all manner of sports outdoors once the ground begins to thaw.

Instead of cycling, running, and pretending to be able to play tennis this summer, I have been walking slower than a slug while bent awkwardly at the waist. If I dropped something on the floor, instead of bending over to pick it up, I would merely stare at it and utter, “huh.” My patience was tested while I waited for Jon to come home from work so he could pick something up for me. It was horrible. A girl just wants to be able to put her own socks on!

In order to get me back into shape, I enlisted the help of an athletic therapist. I wasn’t quite sure what to expect. Upon arrival, I shook the very firm hand of a man with a cheerful disposition and determined focus.

He immediately asked me to do things that weren’t possible without white hot pain shooting throughout my whole body. Things like touching my toes and standing up straight. Then he tested on my flexibility, which made me want to scream out in pain. Since I wasn’t the only one at physio, I clenched my teeth hard enough to hear them grinding together in order to keep the screams from escaping.

After I was able to breathe normally, he let me know that I was all out of alignment and that ‘pressure points’ were going to happen. Lying on the table, a small amount of panic gripped my heart. I looked around at the other patients and they seemed to be fine, so I didn’t run away in terror.

The first pressure point was my hip flexors. This involves the therapist finding a pressure point UNDER your hip bone to release it.

Have I mentioned that I am EXTREMELY ticklish?

Suddenly, I was laughing hysterically and in an epic amount of pain as a hand went wrist deep under my hip bone to release the tension. I have never felt such incredible pain and ticklishness at the same time in my life. I was no longer able to keep the screams in, and inadvertently caused the man to bleed a bit from the scratches I gave him while trying to free myself from the “pressure points”. It was intense to say the least.

The next pressure points were on my lower back and butt. I couldn’t see what was happening, but he must have been at least elbow deep on those ones. I managed not to scream, but felt a bit like dying for those few moments of my life.

Amazingly enough, after the torture was over, I could actually stand up straight and touch my toes. Unfortunately, my back was so messed up that it wouldn’t last for more than a day.

After three weeks of physio and pressure points, things weren’t getting better because I refused to just lie around and ice my back as directed by the cheerful, yet determined athletic therapist. I went to work, sat all day, and even put my own socks on. Apparently the ‘Donloree Puts Her Socks On While Her Back Is Hurt’ is horrible to watch. I had women at the gym offering to help me put my socks on because it was painful to watch me struggle to reach my toes.

During the third week of physio, I was in extreme pain and very low. I was unable to do any of the exercises and was near tears most of the time due to pain and discouragement. After not being able to complete leg lifts, bridges, or squats, I was instructed to do back raises.

Athletic Therapist – Lift up, squeeze your shoulder blades together and count to five.
DL – Ok. Onetwothreefourfive!
Athletic Therapist – Um…I only counted to 2. Was that five seconds?
DL – I counted to five. You didn’t specify seconds.
Athletic Therapist – (laughing) Ok. Five SECONDS. 20 reps. Go.

At this point, I got the giggles. It was either sob, or laugh. So laugh I did, hysterically.

I desperately tried to stop laughing while doing back raises on the table while a man did leg lifts and I woman rode a stationary bike. I am sure they thought I had lost my mind.

I was finally able to hold the laughter in after a few reps. I relaxed, took a deep breath, and burst into hysterical giggles and spit all over a stack of fitness magazines. I just couldn’t get a handle on the laughter. I did all 20 back raises while silent laughter made my shoulders shake uncontrollably.

I was so ashamed of my inability to keep the emotions under control that I nearly bailed on the next appointment. I am glad I kept the appointment, as it only got better from that day forward.

There are very few people that I don’t want to ever see again in my life. It’s a relatively short list, and now the cheerful, yet determined man is on the list. It’s nothing personal, but I don’t want to endure any more pressure points, and if I have to see him it’s most likely because I can’t stand or walk. I will be happy to never see him again, despite his cheerful, yet determined disposition.

I grimaced as I felt it hit my head, slide down my arm, and land on my leg that was partially in the car. I think I may have sworn a little bit under my breath.

As I stomped back into the office, everyone looked up to see who was storming past them.  I announced that I just got pooped on and hate all birds.  Everyone tried not to laugh, but there was much snickering.

I finally made it to physiotherapy and passed all my strength tests with flying colors.  During my first set of exercises which involved balancing on a large ball on my hands and knees, I was asked how I was doing.

Due to the happiness of how well my back was doing, I announced, “I’m doing great, I can even do one arm!”  As soon as the words flew out of my mouth, I realized I was being rather cocky about my skills while the rest of the patients struggled with their exercises.  

The physiotherapist responded with, “Well, it does look way too easy.  Let’s do something hard.”

As penance for having a big mouth, I was forced to do lunges backwards, squats on stability balls, and other things that should be reserved as torture methods for terrorists.  I found myself shaking like crazy while trying to  to complete the new exercises.  I was reduced to a weak, sweaty woman that was gasping for breath.  Who’s doing great now?

I suppose I deserve to be pooped on for being a physiotherapist braggart.  If I promise to keep my mouth shut at my next physiotherapy appointment, will the birds decide NOT to poop on my head?

I immediately fell in love with the feel of hitting a ball 200 yards.  It’s a cheap form of aggression management.  For nine bucks, you get 100 balls to hit into oblivion and no one gets hurt. 

During my third session of nine-dollar aggression management, I hit a ball and made sure to follow through with gusto.  I was trying to get the ball past all the distance markers and be a superstar golfer.  At the end of the swing, I felt all the vertebrae in my back and heard even single one of them as they popped back into place.  For about 2 seconds my body froze into a statue of a golfing woman. 

I kept golfing, despite the large twinges in my back.  After all, I had around 62 more balls to hit as hard as womanly possible.

Then I went back the next day.

Now I can’t do a darn thing and it’s been almost two weeks.

Until you hurt your back, you have no idea how much you use your back in the day.  All I want to do is put my own socks on, be able to sit for more than 45 seconds, and do more than look at things that are on the floor.

I have been relegated to wearing ‘sensible shoes’, which actually means boring.  At work I have been wearing my sports sandals with my suits and dresses.  Even the men have noticed how ridiculous this looks.  I bring along a pair of heels to put on in the boardroom in case a client drops by, but I can’t walk in them without screaming out in pain.  I have come to realize that I don’t have any stylish flat shoes, only fabulous heels.

Today while resting my angry back and trying to avoid emotional eating, I put on my favorite pair of heels.  Just wearing them for a bit made me feel better.  I still can’t put my own socks on, but at least I have some great shoes!

Jeffrey Campbell – you sure know how to make a girl happy! 

In most cases, if I say white, he would say black.

I grew up reading books.  He grew up playing sports.

He loves a crowd and tons of people around all day long.  I love the solitude of an empty, quiet house.

I know many people wonder how we ended up together.  Some days I wonder too….but then there are some days that I know we are meant to be together.

Jon came into our marriage with 2 large Japanese windsocks, boxes of papers, clothes, sporting equipment, and a lack of domestic skills.  I came into our marriage with art, coordinating linens, clothes, and an overflow of domestic skills.

In an attempt to balance out the domestic responsibilities in our first few years of marriage, I tried to teach him how to cook.  This resulted in rice sandwiches for supper.  I quickly realized cooking was not a good idea for this man, even if it meant we got rid of all the leftovers.  Or perhaps he has an iron stomach.  I never gave us the opportunity to find out for sure, I just took back all the cooking responsibilities.

After awhile, I realized that laundry was possibly his sweet spot.  He quickly learned a few things about doing laundry:

• ALWAYS check the pockets.  Pens tend to explode in the dryer.
• Bleach does a great job of getting a stain out, but it also takes all the color out of your pants…
• Gum travels quickly to all garments when left in your favorite pair of shorts. 
• Jeans and white dress shirts do not make good load mates…

After awhile, it seemed Jon was really getting the hang of doing the laundry.  So much so, that I decided it was safe to put my clothes in his capable hands.

He gathered, sorted, washed, and dried those clothes like a pro.  One day I went to see how the laundry was progressing and was so happy to observe that he had a complete load of only pink and reds.  He was washing his winter coat that happened to be red and put only appropriate items with it.  What a guy!  My whites were safe in his hands. 

While Jon perfected his laundry skills, the winter temperature dropped abruptly and he found himself wearing his newly laundered red coat to NAIT every day.  It was so cold some days that he had to pull his hood up and cinch it up around his chin so he didn’t get frostbite while walking from the far off neighborhood where he parked the car for free.  He was often so cold from the walk in, that he wore his coat, hood and all, for quite some time indoors in an effort to warm up.

About a week later, he reached in to his locker to grab his clean, red winter coat only to feel something very soft, something very out of place, in this accounting student’s locker.  To his shock and horror, he found a pair of my red underwear stuck to the Velcro on the hood of his clean, red winter jacket.  The underwear had cleverly spread out and attached itself to the whole hood of the coat by finding 4 or so points of contact with Velcro.

He quickly ripped my matching red underwear off his hood and shoved them into the pocket of his coat.  How many people noticed the underwear stuck to his head, but failed to mention it to him?  He walked down the halls of NAIT with a pair of my underwear stuck to his head for about a week, yet no one said a word.  Not a single word.

Perhaps sorting laundry according to color is not always the best choice.

Now we each do our own laundry – it’s just safer that way.

Over Easter weekend, Jon and I went to help out a very nice friend of ours that runs a one of a kind international natural body building show. We went to help out last year when it was in Edmonton at the U of A. We were more than happy to heft the weights up to the back of the stage, cover everything in sight with paper so the fake tan that the competitors wear doesn’t rub off on anything, and fold the 300 t-shirts that are for sale. This year the show was in Calgary, and since Jon and I were already going to be in Calgary to visit Heather and her very cute family, we volunteered again.

The competitors came from all across the country to take a blood test, complete a lie detector, and flex their muscles on stage. I was once again tasked to cover everything with paper. So my assistant and I went about covering doorknobs, chairs, the floor and the walls in paper to ensure the fake tan didn’t stain anything at SAIT. We were working along just fine, and then we ran out of tape. I ran back up to the room with all the supplies and where all the competitors were focusing in search of another roll of packing tape. They are so intense! All the men were lying on the floor with their legs in the air, listening to music, and staring at the ceiling like it may just disappear. While I was rummaging around to look for another roll of packing tape, I looked up to ask someone where it may be only to see a partially dressed man squeezing himself into the smallest speedo I have ever seen in my life. HELLO! I am a woman and the door is wide open – what the heck are you doing? Apparently no one else seemed to notice, so I fled the scene with bright red cheeks and no tape in hand. I made an executive decision that we had papered enough things, and that was that. Heck as if I was going to go back in there again!

I had completed my task, and the show had yet to start. Since I have a big mouth, I asked what else needed to be done. Apparently everything was done except the competitors needed some help with the application of their fake tan. I didn’t know what to say and I was there to help, so I gave myself a small pep talk, “I can spray paint a muscled man – no problem”, and then promptly agreed to help. I showed up to where all the men were getting ready to go on stage and asked who needed to be sprayed. They all looked at me like I had two heads. Apparently the spray tan is bad, and they all use ‘dream tan’ which is basically a lotion that stains your skin. So, there I was with a bunch of muscle men, just me, and jars of fake tan.

Do you have moments in your life where time pauses? Well, this was one of those times for me. I just paused, looked around for help and there was none to be found.

Since I had already agreed to help the men with their tans, I couldn’t really back out. Besides, some of them were quite pale, and looked rather desperate for some help. So I looked at the man closest to me, gathered my courage, and asked where his ‘dream tan’ was. Then I began one of the most awkward tasks of my life. I let him know every move that I was making, so as not to startle him.

DLH – Ummm…I guess I am just going to rub this all over your back.

Muscle Man – OK. Great. (Severe focus on his face)

DLH – Sorry, I am going to put this in your armpit now. I guess it’s good you’re not ticklish. Perhaps not being ticklish is a prerequisite of bodybuilding? (So nervous to be touching this strange man all over)

Muscle Man – Sure, uh huh (Not at all impressed with my high level of awkwardness)

DLH – Ok, um….I have to get the back of your legs here, and your…bum…uh…I’m just going to touch you here….ummm…!!

Those ‘shorts’ as one of the men called them are SO SMALL! My gosh! I was mortified. When I finally finished ‘dream tanning’ the non-talking, severely focused man, another short, muscle man needed help.

Luckily he was skilled enough to do most of his own ‘dream tanning’, all I had to do was his neck, face, and receding hairline. He was about 5’2”, so it was easy enough to see what needed to be done there. While I ‘dream tanned’ him, an alarm went off which meant it was time for him to eat his favorite snack – 1 tbsp of all natural almond butter. He was so excited, and couldn’t wait. It was somewhat complex to get his face to have a consistent color while he gulped down his almond butter.

I finally thought that I was home free, but a very tall man came running through backstage in an absolute panic. He was on in 15 minutes and he had no tan at all and needed to eat! Apparently they have to eat at very specific times, and there was no way he could wait 15 minutes to eat. So while he dipped rice cakes in natural peanut butter and dripped and crumbed all over the place, including me, I slathered him in dream tan. Let’s just say it wasn’t my best work! He also had rice cake crumbs that just became part of the tan on his chest. There wasn’t much I could do about that.

Finally everyone was tanned, and I was home free. I didn’t ask for a new way to help, just went out to watch the show at that point. I did have a very interesting tan line on my arms for the rest of the weekend, which served to remind me that being extra helpful may be extra awkward at times!