I’m currently sitting on a flight from Seattle to New York (well, Newark) feeling fidgety and uncomfortable. No, it’s not because of your standard “sardines packed into a tin” dread of being crammed into a metal bird with a couple hundred of your closest germ-riddled stranger-neighbors. Nor is it because I’m a nervous flier (though I don’t take descents well). My constant shifting and pained expressions have to do with something else, something horribly awful and appropriately Mediocre.
Allow me to rewind to yesterday afternoon. I was at Elite Fitness (they must have relaxed their standards as I am elite in nothing but extreme nacho consumption) getting my strength on with one of the trainers. One of the sets he forced me to endure was a circuit duo consisting of a 5×5 set of bench press followed by weighted crunches. I wimpily grunted my way through the bench press (and managed to burst some blood vessels near my armpit during the process — lovely) and made my way onto the floor to hug a weight and knock out some sit-ups. Set #1 was fine, Set #2 okay, Set #3 a bit fatiguing, etc.
Towards the end of my mini sufferfest, however, I noticed that my crunches were starting to feel uncomfortable. Not on my abs, mind you, or my back, or even my hands that were sweatily clutching a weight to my chest. Rather, as I progressed through each set, I noticed my ass was becoming less and less tolerant of the constant up-and-down motions to which I was subjecting it.
I snuck a couple fidgets and wedgie picks when my trainer wasn’t looking while mentally shaking my fist at what used to be a tried-and-true pair of workout shorts that had never previously given me any issues. By the end of the session I was sweaty and tired and had momentarily forgotten about my butt discomfort.
And then I stripped down and got into the locker room showers.
Having realized that no, Elite Fitness did not actually replace their water with jalapeno vinegar-soaked knives, I realized that my badonkadonk had somehow accumulated an impressive amount of chafing during my strength workout. Now, I’ve written about chafing before and how it’s a well-known triathlete/endurance sport woe. I’ve gotten chafing pretty much everywhere, including the asscrack. But I’ve never gotten chafing that high up in longitude before, and I’ve never gotten it from strength training of all things.
I didn’t want to stand bare-assed in the middle of the locker room to check out my plumber’s crevice in the mirror (because yes, I enjoy my locker room modesty), so I hurriedly got dressed and returned to work. When I sat down at my desk, however, I felt as if my chair had been replaced with razor wire. The ass chafing quickly progressed from “minor nuisance” to “this is some bullshit,” but I managed to finish out my work day and headed home.
Once I was in the privacy of my own domicile, I went upstairs to ass-ess the damage. Of course, right as I dropped trou Jason appeared in the hallway (dude has a sixth sense for knowing the exact moment I’m in various states of undress).
Jason: “So I printed our boarding passes for tomorrow’s flight and HOLY CRAP WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED TO YOUR BUTTCRACK?!”
The northern part of my keester had a visible burn on each cheek that turned my sensible little rump into Freddy Kruger-brand beef jerky. It was gross. It’s still gross. And naturally, Jason pointed out my ass marks were perfect timing for a five hour flight across the United States where the only thing I’ll be able to do is sit for an extended period of time.
So here I am, sitting on the edge of my seat because my charred whale tail has made for the most uncomfortable flight ever. The thought of pulling on a thong for the wedding we’re attending tomorrow has me whimpering. I can pair the “Forrest Gump butt bandage” look with my red cocktail dress instead, right?
Basically, what I’m trying to say is I somehow managed to burn my ass crack while doing crunches and now my butt burns with the fire of 1,000 suns. Fitness is overrated.