Thirty-something, single, triathlete

[*None of the views expressed in this articles are necessarily those of the author. They are predominantly constructed for your entertainment and for comedic purposes. Some of them are real, though.]

[*All stories are based on real-life events. Names, dates and place have been left EXACTLY AS THEY ARE IN REAL LIFE. I will name and shame you, and I will feel exactly zero remorse.]

This article is written as a plea to those close to me to CALM. THE .(...). DOWN. I am 32. I am relatively successful. I am single. I have no children. The clock is ticking. And I am entirely fine with it.

What one gradually comes to know, accept, and eventually even love about triathlon is that it takes every single second of your waking hours that aren’t already dedicated to the pursuit of financial survival. If you are prepared to channel this much of your energy, time, and resources (so many resources, jissus…) into this pursuit, chances are you absolutely frickin’ love what you do. There’s a pretty low probability that you’re being held against your will. It is entirely unlikely that you doing this because you’re bored (note – I said “unlikely”, not “impossible”…. #justsaying).

If you are OK with all of this, you are more than likely OK with the opportunity cost (read: sacrifices) that come with all this; one of them being likelihood of sustaining a functional relationship with (almost) anyone not as narcissistically besotted with your triathlon habit as you are. You’ve weighed it up, you’ve measured it, you’ve chosen life (kidding – you’ve chosen triathlon, which is the opposite of choosing life). So now that I’ve set the scene, I’d like to provide some guidelines on what not to do in your well-meaning-but-VERY-annoying attempt to save from a problem that you think I have, but that I don’t really have.

1. Please refrain at all times from introducing me to your amazing cousin / colleague / friend / brother who I “absolutely have to meet”. Here’s why:

- We’re going to go for drinks. At 17:30. Because bedtime is 21:00. And that is not negotiable. Preferably not on a Friday, because #longridesaturday, and it’s going to be one drink. Because two drinks and I’m three sheets to the wind.

- If we go for drinks, he’ll ask, “So what are you into?”, to which I’ll respond, “Triathlon”, and empirical evidence suggests that the probability of the conversation progressing past that point is not statistically significantly different from zero (read: conversation killer). It’s science, bro.

- If your amazing cousin / colleague / friend / brother is not an advocate (exceptionally long hours) and a sub-10 Ironman (entirely self-obsessed), dat boy be single for a reason, yo. This is Cape Town. The ratio of women to men is dramatically, DRAMATICALLY, in his favour. He’s defective. Don’t waste my time (Please refer to disclaimer at the top of the article).

- If he is in fact an advocate / actuary / investment banker and a sub-10 Ironman, let me know. Most of you have my number.

2. Please refrain at all times from sending me links to Elephant Love Journal blog posts entitled “Dear Sweet Wild Woman – Here’s Why You Haven’t Found Love Yet”….. HEY?? Are you frickin’ kidding me??

- I go to bed at 9pm;

- I wake up at 4am;

- I ride my bike;

- I go to work (I’m an Economist. Not a frickin’ stunt rigger. I calculate inflation – I don’t roll cars so that Charlize doesn’t have to do it);

- I go for a run;

- I go home;

- I go to bed at 9pm…..

I am NOT a WILD WOMAN! What the actual ... are you actually talking about?? I am the most boring person I know! And I was in academics for years! One more link to blog posts… I dare you…

3. Please never ask me if I have considered a different hobby. No. I haven’t. And I won’t. And I don’t want to talk about it. And yes, I am acutely aware of how different my bank balance would look if I did. But still – no. And I’m fine with it.

My point is simply this: I am not panicking. I am extremely happy. I don’t want you to panic, and I mostly don’t want you to fix. I have everything I need inside this incredible expensive bubble made mostly of carbon, sweat, and lycra. I’ve met some of the best people in the universe inside that bubble, and the bubble has sent me on some of the best adventures I’ve been brave enough to embark on. The bubble’s taught me more about myself than any degree, therapist or blog post ever could. My saddle and Claire know everything that anybody else needs to know about me at this stage of the game, and that’s exactly how I want it. My ovaries will wait.

It’s on the programme

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