Thor’s Hammer, Wonder Woman Panties, and Other Weightlifting Adventures

On rare occasions, Marovich will ‘fess up that she’s genetically gifted. She’s that freak of nature friend we all have in our lives with an innate physical advantage over the rest of us mere mortals. That being said, she works very hard at maintaining her superlative physical condition. I’ve witnessed her beating many a man at arm wrestling–even my sushi chef friend in Florida.

 

Those ARMS...!

Those ARMS…! I nicknamed her “MUBS” back in high school–Massive Upper Body Strength

 

Olympic athletes have nothing over Marovich (other than millions of dollars, cereal box covers, and those pesky medals).

Some faster dialer robbed us of our normal racquetball court time last night, so we had to improvise our workout. The moment I walked in the door with my 10-pound kettle bells, Marovich blew me shit about my v-necked Batman tee, a new wardrobe asset from #C2E2 last weekend: “Really?!? A BATMAN t-shirt?!?” With anyone else, I might’ve been self-conscious, but this is my BFF since 7th grade, and this is the nature of our relationship. Like sisters who never stop slinging the insults. Our friend Chrissy was there and she liked my shirt, so I felt exonerated.

As for my 10-pound kettle bells, Marovich wasn’t having it. That 5’4″ drill sergeant commanded me to use Thor’s Hammer (her 20-pound dumb bell) for my tricep curls. I was dying after 6 reps. All I could think to myself was “Who am I going to hire to help me remove my sports bra when I get home?” because there was no lifting my arms above my head after 30 reps with Thor’s Hammer. (I ended up sleeping in it.)

However, Marovich managed to insert some comedy into the torture. I made the offhanded comment that even my Wonder Woman underwear wasn’t boosting my strength. “Wait a minute!” she stopped me. “YOU’RE wearing Wonder Woman underwear?!? Let me see.” I dropped trou, presented proof, and quickly redressed as Marovich doubled over laughing at me. (We do that a lot, I’m sure you’ve gathered.)

Wonder Woman Underwear

My Wonder Woman Underwear

We were in her 2nd floor loft working out, and she triple-dog dared me to strip down to just my Wonder Woman panties and Batman tee, continuing my workout looking ridiculous, like this was the new normal. I took the dare. She yelled down to Chrissy to grab us two ice cubes (that’s always a “tell” when Marovich is pranking someone – those obscure requests that make no sense at the time) so Chrissy was delayed in coming upstairs. This bought me enough time to undress, resume weight lifting, and look like nothing was up. Chrissy arrived with the two ice cubes, froze in her tracks, processed for a moment, and with a half-smile said finally, “I didn’t know you had a pierced belly button!” This made me double over laughing, because Chrissy just stole Marovich’s thunder, not delivering the shocked reaction she was expecting.

Marovich tried re-selling it. “Do you see her Wonder Woman underwear?!?”

Chrissy countered, What’s the big deal? You have Batman underwear.”

‘Nuff said.

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The Racquetball Chronicles, Episode 4: Sprained Boobs

Don’t shoot me if it’s been more than four. I think we’ve established that I’m terrible with numbers. For the record, the final scores tonight in Marovich’s favor (of course) were 21-1, 21-1, and 15-8. As you can tell, I was just warming up by Game #3. I’m confident I would have handed her ass to her if we’d rented the court for two hours instead of one.

Marovich & Me: We've been playing this game for 30 years and we still haven't bothered to learn the rules!

1980s-style Marovich & Me: We’ve been playing this game for 30 years and we still haven’t bothered to learn the rules!

So Marovich and I still haven’t read the 70-page PDF document explaining the Official Rules of Racquetball. I tried reading it, but my ADD got in the way, and Marovich is just way too busy with work. I’m lucky she squeezes me in. We were hoping tonight that one of you reading this blog might already know the rules of racquetball. If so, here are our questions for you:

#1. If you hit your opponent with the ball and you’re not the one serving, is it an automatic point to the server, or an automatic do-over?

#2. In the server box, there is a smaller side box to the left, and one to the right. In cut-throat, does one of the three players have to be in that box during the serve?

#3. If the ball hits our bottled waters sitting in the corner of the court, is that an automatic do-over?

#4. If the player receiving the serve chooses to play on a Long (Duck Dong) Serve or a (Martin) Short Serve, does that count? Or do they have to call it long or short?

#5. What is the air speed velocity of an unladen swallow? (Just makin’ sure you’re still with me.)

Our latest on-court shenanigans resulted in the addition of the “The Belch Hindrance” clause to our already customized version of the Racquetball Rules. Marovich knows if she belches while I’m serving, I’m the 12-year-old who just busts out laughing and blows my serve. Every time. You see, we have a girlfriend who has earned our deep respect for really setting the bar high on the tone, volume, and resonance of her belches. For our own amusement, we used to dare she-who-shall-remain-nameless to drink down an entire can of Diet Coke, call her mom on the phone, and then emit this depths-of-hell belch that literally went on for 10 seconds straight, as her appalled and very proper Catholic mom was screaming at her to stop in the names of Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. It was EPIC. Sadly, Marovich has finally found the one thing in life she can’t do better than someone else. And every time Marovich attempts her totally fey belches on court, she knows my brain goes right back to our friend belching in her mom’s ear, and that makes me laugh even harder. When you’ve been friends since 7th grade, you know each other’s Achilles’ Heels. Hence the necessity for the new clause.

The estrogen-centric reading this will agree, there are some days of the month when “the girls” are more tender than others. I forewarned Marovich my girls were uber-sensitive and requested could she please try not to hit me in the chest with the ball, just this once? The next thing I knew, I somehow managed to hit my own self in the chest with the racquetball and it was so ridiculous, we had to stop playing so Marovich could regain her composure. In the next play, Marovich put both hands out in front of her–palms facing me–as she tried to reach one of those maddening shots that hugs the wall without crashing into it at full speed. My sore, swollen girls stood right in her pathway. Another hindrance. It was like that classic Seinfeld scene where Elaine accidentally falls in the women’s locker room and grabs Jerry’s girlfriend’s breasts to break her fall. With aplomb, I delivered Teri Hatcher’s famous line to Marovich: “They’re real, and they’re spectacular,” as we lost another five minutes on the clock to me icing down my sprained boobs.

After racquetball, Marovich imparted that Amy Schumer shares our same, sick sense of humor, as evidenced by her hilarious new Comedy Central music parody, “Milk, Milk, Lemonade,” which spoofs the big booty jams. It’s #NSFW, so don’t watch this one around the kids. I warn you, it’s a total ear worm and you will hate me in the morning: http://bitly.com/MilkMilkLemonade 

One summer night we were all drinking at the Diet Coke Belcher’s house, drawing Dirty Sanchez mustaches on each other with Hershey’s chocolate for selfies, debating the origin of Eggs Danny Thomas-style, when I got the impulse to call GoDaddy.com and purchase the MilkMilkLemonadeAroundtheCorner.com URL (I may even still own it, I’m not sure…). I was incensed to learn that someone else already owned my first choice, the MilkMilkLemonade.com URL. For all I know, it could have been Amy Schumer. And if it was Amy, then that’s okay.