A beautiful mind

Warning: This post does not cast me in the best light. In fact, you'll probably think I'm an idiot. Proceed with caution.

Any journalism grad or lover of English worth their salt knows that one of the basic mechanics of good writing is to provide supporting details (i.e. proof) to back up statements and opinions.

While Justin Bieber needing to be deported back to Canada is a solid fact, it won't hold up in the court of law unless I can provide some solid reasons as to why the Maple Syrup Man Child should head for the Northern border.

Know what I'm sayin'?

And that brings us to today's blog post.

I am probably one of the most irrational, worried people you'll ever meet. Longtime readers of the blog know this to be true. I am a hypochondriac, I have an anxiety disorder, and I'm just generally ridiculous.

Keeping up with standard writing conventions, let me provide some supporting details:

Since I ran a grueling half marathon last weekend, I've kept my workouts pretty low keys this week. In an effort to let my body heal, I've been looking for physical activities that will take the stress off my joints and give my legs a break.

On Wednesday night, Clayton and I decided we were the next Michael Phelps and Ryan Lochte and elected to swim laps at the YMCA. Since doing anything other than laying still in a lounge chair is impossible when wearing a bikini, I busted out the one-piece Nike swimsuit I ordered a few years ago from ebay.

I bought the swimsuit over the summer of 2012 when I was in the midst of training for my first sprint triathlon. Remember that? A week or two before the race, I made the decision not to participate because a summer drought created unsafe levels of blue algae on the lake and call me crazy, I didn't want to swim in blue algae. So I tossed the swimsuit in the bottom of a drawer and completely forgot about it for almost 2 years.

Wednesday night was the first time I ever wore the swimsuit and I know this because Wednesday night I was very alarmed by how it badly it cut off the circulation to my crotch. I'm pretty sure I'd remember that if I had worn it previously.

Meanwhile, Clayton and I were swimming laps and living our lives. While doing the backstroke and thinking about how ugly the blue and gold swimsuit is, I was struck with a paralyzing thought:

"Did I wash the swimsuit before I tossed it into my drawer two years ago?"

As in, did I wash an article of clothing that hugged another person's genitals before placing it over my own?

For the life of me, I couldn't remember.

And I kid you not (and I so wish I was kidding): In a matter of 30 seconds I went from contemplating the ugliness of a swimsuit to being 100% fully convinced that I just contracted herpes.

Like, FULLY convinced. As in I spent the evening googling "can you get herpes from a swimsuit?" and "how long does herpes lives on clothes?" and "herpes isn't so bad, right?". I even started mentally preparing for how I would explain the situation to my doctor without sounding like a complete wack-a-doodle.

Clayton's response? There was a lot of eye-rolling and sighing.

My husband telling me, "You didn't contract herpes from a seller on ebay, okay? Now to go to bed!" is definitely a low-point in our marriage.

And a low-point in my life in general.

I woke up the next morning feeling ashamed and embarrassed over how badly I overreacted to the insane scenario I created in my own mind. When left to my own devices, I can convince myself of anything. ANYTHING. I asked Clayton to pretend like the whole incident never happened.

But that didn't stop me from throwing the swimsuit in the trash anyway.

Moral of the story: I'm a terrible swimmer.

Have a great weekend!