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Susan Lacke’s “Triathlete Love” column appears every month on Triathlete.com. Lacke gives her humorous take on sharing a house, a life and a race schedule with the man of her dreams—an Ironman triathlete named Neil, who Lacke describes as “Insanely Hot.” (Then again, aren’t all triathletes hot?)
I’m really infuriated to have to write this. I feel so foolish, so…duped. I know your secret. I know you’ve been cheating. When you came to bed last night and kissed me good night, I could smell it on you.
Chili. Cheese. Tortillas.
How dare you? I thought we were doing this off-season diet together. You said you wanted to get down to race weight with me before our marathon in January.
“It’ll be great!” you said.
“I support you, babe!” you said.
“WE’RE IN THIS TOGETHER!” you said.
Why are there burrito wrappers in our garbage? How did our dogs get ahold of an empty container of Ben & Jerry’s? Whose candy bars are these? My god, honey, what are you doing after I go to bed at night?
After everything I’ve done for you! Do you know how much care went into packing your lunches? I even leave you little love notes tucked amongst your carrot sticks and grapes – what part of “No cheating, a-hole! P.S. I love you!” are you not understanding? Do my scribbled hearts and smiley faces push you away, into the loving arms of the donut-cart guy at work? Don’t you dare try to lie to me – I found the telltale chocolate frosting on the collar of your shirt.
How is it even possible that you can make it through 11 hours of an Ironman on liquids and gels alone, yet you can’t make it through Monday Night Football without a covert Domino’s delivery?
This isn’t the first time I’ve caught you in your little web of deceit, mister. You think I don’t know about your lottery spot at Escape from Alcatraz? That’s right – I saw that. Were you planning on paying for that with the money you were going to use to take me out to a fancy dinner in the off-season? ‘Cause I haven’t forgotten that promise. And no, you can’t wear your K-Swiss Tubes. You have to wear shoes. Real ones. You promised.
I let it slide when you came home with a treadmill for our dining room instead of a table. I was a little miffed when you set up a swim trainer next to it. But so help me god, if you come home with a Computrainer instead of a new microwave this weekend, I will stab you.
Which reminds me…honey, if you’re reading this, I signed us both up for a tri camp in Tucson this spring. It’s going to be such a fun week! I’m sure you’re going to love it so much you won’t be mad when you find out I paid for it with your credit card. I know, I know…I love you, too!