The Time Kenyans: The Clock is Always Slower

A couple Sundays ago I was in the 90-minute spin class, parked behind a group of three ladies, which I will refer to as "mommy triathletes." I don't know if they are actually mommies, but I can about gar-un-darn-tee you they are triathletes. It's the hats, those low, lightweight vaguely baseball caps, that make them stick out.

You know the hats I am talking about.

Now, remember, I spent a solid 90-minutes behind these ladies, so I got a good look at 'em. They were all quite fit, as you might imagine, but the one on the left had the most amazing bod: trim waist, muscular arms, and the most amazing legs I have ever seen. I swear they were about as big as the gal's waist. Just tone muscles for miles. Looking at her made me want to rip my own legs off. I don't know how she buys pants, but she looked good. 

Of course, I imagine all sorts of things about these gals, but mostly I imagine all the time they probably get to spend on their fitness. They just drive their kids to school in their Lexus crossover vehicles and then proceed to swim, spin, run, and pump iron for the next 5-7 hours before they go home and prepare a lovely meal of organic chicken and kale. 

I put them in a category with the ladies that can go to all the "good classes" at the Walnut Creek YMCA that are during the day. Or the ladies on the VeloRosa bike team who send an email on a Tuesday morning: "Anyone want to ride gravel around 2 this afternoon?"

Geez, am I the only one who works around here?

Mommy triathletes get the brunt of my jealousy. But, I even grow a bit envious of Goldie. She has a demanding job, for sure, but her job is flexible, so that she can sneak out in the afternoon for a yoga class or a run. (I conveniently forget that she is working while I am at my Sunday 90-minute spin class). 

If I could just work out as much as _____________ , then life would perfect, obviously.

Goldie, I don't think she will mind if I mention this, has the same green-eyed feeling about other people's workout schedules. She told me a story about a local lady, who teaches Body Pump at the Y btw, who did some sort of BRR-Ride equivalent on gravel, then ran 6 miles to a bar, danced, partied, etc, then ran 6 miles back. WTF?!?

We were also discussing the Tiger on our way home from the gym the other morning. Don't ask me how we got on this topic, but she asked, quite fairly, why the Tiger can't work out. "I mean, it's not like he has a kid! I mean, I work out during the day, but my evenings are totally devoted to kid-time." (Goldie chime in on the comments if I am getting this wrong).

While Goldie has a flexible job, she does have a kid. A very demanding kid. He's smart and hyperactive and he loves his mommy. He is pretty much just a small, male version of Goldie, which, btw, proves all those mothers right when they said "I can't wait until you have a kid that turns out just like you." 

I was thinking about this, and then I read Steven's blog a couple of days ago. And, I can hear her frustration echoing across the blogosphere. 

Steven has a lot on her plate. She works, she raises kids, she cooks, she cleans, she nurses, she blogs. She runs a household, she's a great friend, she's a great educator, and she does a ton of sh!t I don't even about. Now wonder she has a hard time finding a few minutes to workout. 

The Tiger said this morning, "I just don't know how mothers do it. I just don't understand." Neither do I. I can't even begin to understand how she does it. There have been times in my life when I have been so swamped that I could not get the work+life+fitness equation to balance, but now is not that time. In fact, I feel incredibly privileged that I can structure my day to get to the gym once or even twice. 

But, if I am looking at those mommy-triathletes with workout-jealousy, then I should remember that there might be people looking at me the same way. Now, this doesn't completely follow Steven's brilliant Kenyan theory, because I am pretty sure that I don't aspire to be a mommy-triathlete. I mean, I look terrible in hats, for one. But, it gives me good perspective.

I think I just have to remember that those mommy-triathletes are just doing what they can do when they can do it, and, by god, that's how sh!t gets done, yo. And, we have to be proud of ourselves, because as cheesey as the cliche is, we are all beating the people on the couch.