Sunday, March 26, 2017

Condo Clothes

Last weekend I decided to convert my body into a senior citizen. I did this the best way I know how: eleventy hundred hours of yard work.

Y'all. There are muscles that yard work requires of the human body that literally no other task also requires. The closest any physical activity has ever come to forcing the same kind of exertion out of the body as yard work does is probably Crossfit. But since all of those people are going to be in a coma by 40, it's really kind of a waste anyway.

I don't understand it. Look. I'm not an 18-year-old gymnast. I know that. I didn't even spell "gymnast" correctly on the first try. (I should have just left my initial spelling so you guys could all be like YOU GRAMMARED WRONG YOU IDIOT which is sort of my favorite thing about you. Well, that, and when Awesomesauciness yells at us for not being old. WRITE THE BOOK ALREADY. 1,200 pages of stream-of-conscious writing without punctuation is all I ask.)

The point is, I don't think that I'm the most physically-fit human being to ever live. But I'm not in bad shape either. I mean, I am an Ironman [flexes both biceps, kiss two fingers, and then holds a peace sign up to God].

I know. I hate myself for saying it, too. But to be fair, that's the first time I've ever pulled the Ironman card on you. And I had to exercise for a long time and use many porta potties so I'm kind of entitled the title.

But even though I'm technically an IRONMAN [puts on sunglasses; refuses to acknowledge people who aren't rich and famous] the second I finish doing yard work my body starts responding to the words "arthritis" and "adult diapers" and "bingo."

I knew this was going to happen. I'm not naive anymore. I knew I was going to need help.

I normally use Matt for situations like this but he needs more help with his yard this year than I do and I don't want him to think we have a free exchange of services right now so I've blocked his number from my phone and right now he thinks I broke my femur in a very violent bar fight because I've been walking around on crutches whenever he visits my house and I will stay committed to this until October if I have to.

So instead of calling Matt, I invited my sister Krishelle to come help. And by "invited" I mean "texted the words 'OMG party at my hows so fun lol come over ttyl!'"

She came, partly because she thought I was having a stroke. But also because she's very competitive about maintaining the sister-of-the-year award.

[Editor's Note: none of us try for "family member of the year" anymore because Cathie somehow made the award a life appointment the last time she got it and we all fell for it even though the award's name has the word "year" in it]

Krishelle knew I needed help in the yard. So she came, dressed for the occasion. And I know that doesn't sound like a very big deal to you. But you need to believe me when I say that Krishelle coming dressed to do yard work should have monopolized cable news last weekend.

My uncle Will and I have both had the same experience with Krishelle over the years where we invite her to help us do yard work and then she shows up dressed ready for the XC Academy Awards.

Will called her out on this many years ago and Krishelle responded, "I don't have a yard. I live in a condo. These are condo clothes."

"Condo clothes" has since become code in my family for "ill-dressed for the occasion."

You might say that I go to work in "condo clothes" every single day of my professional life.

The point is, Krishelle showed up not in condo clothes, which was incredibly impressive, and then she spent like ten straight hours performing manual labor that was so rigorous that it's actually illegal in 62 states.

But by the end of it all, we got this done:

And I know you didn't see what it looked like before and shame on me for not taking any before photos but just trust me when I say this place was a MESS.

The next day my neighbor Lynn stopped by and saw it and she told me that she was actually speechless, which is a big deal coming from Lynn considering that her yard looks like the Garden of Eden and she never stops talking and she steals people's cats and takes them to weddings.

After ten hours of yard work, Krishelle and I went to dinner. When the check came, she reached for it. I pulled it away and said, "no. I got this." She thanked me. I responded, "no need to thank me. And now we are completely even."

She shook her head at me and did not smile.

Now, please enjoy this week's Strangerville Short.

~It Just Gets Stranger


  1. We are definitely not even. I couldn't walk for 3 days after that.

  2. The run-on sentence is giving me a panic attack. Fix it. I know you put it there on purpose. The grammar nazis are not amused.

    1. He did that because secretly he wants to be me and he's trying to learn how to convert his brain's ramblings into a semi-cohesive stream of consciousness that's both funny and enlightening but he will find out he can't and I can because OLD.

  3. Honey-chile...I spent 487 hours this past weekend wrangling the various shrubs, trees, and flowers - some of which I'm pretty sure are carnivorous, if my arms are any indication - on my 30-acre mini-ranch into some semblance of order. When it came time to get up for our day jobs this morning (at 3:00 AM, yes you read that right) my husband weakly spoke up to say "Perhaps we should not try and do all that in the available 487 hours of the weekend next time." If I'd been able to raise my arms I'd of smacked him upside the head. As it was, I could do no more than nod numbly before realizing even my hair hurts.

    And you know why I'm so exhausted and achy? BECAUSE I'M OLD, PEOPLE, THAT'S WHY!!

    1. You get 487 hours of weekend??? I am no longer sorry for your 3am wakeup call. Worth it for 20+days of weekend. Your fault squandering it on terrible chores.

      You should follow my example, get 48 hours of weekend: spend 26 hours sleeping, 3 hours watching soccer (go Real Salt Lake! and Real Monarchs!) 6 hours doing laundry, 2 hours getting my nails done, and 11 hours reading and snacking on stale popcorn.

      ...Ok, now that I've actually done the math on my weekend maybe you are better off spending 487 hours wrangling shrubbery. I apologize. And I'm sorry for your wake-up time too. :(

  4. But did condo clothes help get her out of work those other times? If so, that's genius.

  5. It most definitely did. I'm a lot smarter then these people think I am.

    1. I totally wear condo-clothes to family projects. That way I can be helpful by "watching the cat to make sure she doesn't eat the fish while everyone is distracted with work" and "going to starbucks to get refreshments for everyone working so hard, but the line was long so that's why it took me three hours and I also forgot to get anyone else a drink".

      You really are the smartest.

  6. If I were Krishelle, I would make you pick up the check for every meal for the rest of forever.