Tag Archives: women

Early 20s Versus Late 20s?


A trek to Bellevue WA. this morning led me to eaves drop on an interesting conversation three men were having while waiting for the bus. They honestly sounded like your average trio of women, supporting each other with their theories on men. Thank god I had my notebook open to write down their take on us 20 something ladies. This is NOT a whose smarter than who, just an observation with some, ummm, opinions on both male and females. Also, these men were, uh, average.

Man 1: You know? I was like, you do what for a job?

Man 2: Yeah, they were pretty crazy

Man 1: I dunno man, women in their late 20s just don’t seem to cut it for me anymore (and they were before guy wearing brown flannel and a Steelers hat? C’mon)

Man 3 jumps in: It’s more like the early 20 girls that have it figured out! (Yes, perkier boobs and more fun, right?)

Man 1: Yeah! I met like three architects and a lawyer that night, all early 20s (You lucky bastard. Either you were at a convention or a way too pricey cocktail lounge for your your $7 dollar budlight)

Man 3: All the late 20 girls were acting more like frat boys, you know? Getting all drunk and shit (And that’s a problem for you?)

Man 2: We should definitely go for the younger girls next time (Join the rest of the clueless)

Conversation shifts

Man 1: What’s with this hippie movement going on right now?

Man 3 and 2 nod, Man 2: Yeah, everyone is like, all hippies now

I lost interest after this. Sorry, butt buddies who were walking aimlessly around Bellevue at 10am when, I am assuming you should be at work, rather than talking about frat boy girls and architect women. We, women, tend to do the same, so I can’t riff on them too hard. We assume that the older they are the more mature they are, secure, and have shaken out of their bro-esque habits. But as my friend Maria puts it, older men are no different than the younger men, they just have bed frames.

I mean, don’t kid yourself, we all like to put our party pants on. Some are just more professional about it.

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The Beauty of Sports

The inch long scar on my left calf from a rough game of seaweed wars. The two off white circles on my left index finger from playing defense at a Cal lacrosse camp. The ones on my palms that can only be seen when it’s cold from falling on a run home. The three on my left forearm from that cigarette butt. The one in my belly button from my emergency appendectomy. The four straight lines on my thigh from falling through a rotten deck on the Oregon coast. The countless ones around my ankles from sloppy rushed shaving jobs. My fractured eardrum from diving into our California swimming pool, not noticing my sister and her surprisingly hard head in the way. The fifteen or so overlapping scars on my knees from turf burns, hiking, and falling purely out of clumsiness. The one on my left foot from a beer bottle the summer before my sophomore year of college. My two knotted bumps on my ankles that have been sprained for almost four years. And my meniscus that is now missing in my right knee; if I don’t crack it to move the bone every thirty minutes or so it locks up.

Our skeletal muscle is the largest single organ of the human body and accounts for nearly 50% of the body’s weight. We put this organ through some of the toughest challenges. We can feel our ATP pumping through our body, replenishing tired muscles. Muscles work through an anaerobic and aerobic cycle. When we are sprinting up and down, digging into the grass to ask for the ball, we switch into our anaerobic cycle. When this begins our oxygen flow to our muscles is cut off, causing us to heave, grip our thighs for that extra gulp, and eventually get those aching muscles that make even walking to the bathroom a challenge. We breathe in, and the oxygen is distributed through our blood into the capillaries and cells. Oxygen would be toxic to our body if we didn’t have specialized organelles to put it to use, instantly throwing other atoms on it to make oxygen in our body useful. What makes a body push through everything? How have we been trained to fight through pain, add stories to our injuries, and still be on the playing field fighting a war with our own joints?

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