Spoiled Rotten

This is going to be tough for me to admit. Tougher than admitting that I know all the words to "Your Love is My Drug"...

Athletes are a spoiled species.

There. I said it.

And as I die a little inside I can hear the snickering from the nerds, lighting their pitchforks, or broomsticks or whatever, and high-fiving to my confession. Well. You can all suck one.

Due to the obvious fact that we put our bodies through hell and sacrifice months of our social lives at a time to be in top shape to perform like circus animals for your amusement, I contend that we deserve a little pampering now and then. A free meal here, a massage and stretch there seems like small restitution for the years our respective sports add to our bodies. I hope technology progresses exponentially in the next few years because I already find myself craving the sweet embrace of a wheelchair.

Here's the problem. We get so used to being well-taken care of, that when our careers are over we are hit with the realization that there's this whole ass-backwards adult world where your hot trainers don't stretch you everyday... and... wait for it... you don't get free gear whenever you want.

Fuck.

How are we supposed to survive years of this? Moreover is this what the rest of our lives will be like?

No worries comrades. We'll prevail. Over the past year and a half I have been able to do some research, picking up little tidbits as to how all of these "normal" folks are able to carry on day to day. Ha. They think I'm one of them. Idiots.

Free Food - Apparently the athletic department stops paying for your food when you graduate. Turns out that walking across that stage was the worst damn decision I ever made. I keep trying to tell my boss that its game day so that they'll provide catered food for me before the meeting and a potluck afterwards with a bunch of strangers forcing barbeque down my throat. She's been surprisingly non-responsive. Asshole.

Laundry - One of the machines gets the clothes all wet and smelling less like the inside of an asshole. The other one makes your spandex so hot and warm it feels like your balls are in a downy soft toaster oven. I don't know how either of them work, or what the hell any of the buttons and dials do, but I suggest hiring somebody to take care of this for you.

Traveling - I tried to hop in my car, throw my headphones in, take a nap, and figured that by the time I woke up I would be at a Hilton and it would be time to go to dinner. I ended up in a ditch with a lot of people looking confused. Worst away trip ever.

Clothes - This may be the saddest revelation of all. According to my research you actually have to seek out your own clothing. I kept looking around for the room with all of my monogrammed #10 clothes and could never find it. Walked into a couple people's closets hoping it was a Narnia type scenario but all that gets you is a restraining order. Shit I don't even know what size I am. What's a NikeFit medium translate to in real people clothes?

Stretching - Yeah so... Turns out it's actually pretty important. I'm not sure I want to live in a world where I can't just walk into a room, lie down, and have some kind person lift my legs and twist them around for me. Also where the hell can I get my hands on some of the e-stim or ultrasound machines? I'm not even sure these things work for shit but boy did they feel great.

Finding Doctor - Alright confession time again. I was getting up from my chair at work and I'm 82% certain I tore my hamstring. In half. As I hobbled around the office in anguish I came to the horrifying realization that there are no longer people assigned to care for you. Furthermore you actually have to find your own doctor put back together instead of them coming to you and telling you what to do. Maybe I'll just limp for the foreseeable future.

Making Appointments - It get's worse. Not only do you have to find these physicians on your own but then you have to... make an appointment? Like anyone knows what the fuck that is. I was under the impression that if you walk in and make enough of scene some cute 20-something with a PT degree will rub your legs. And what the hell is the deal with the butcher paper on the tables? Nope. Not TP. That's my bad.

Exercising... Period - Wait wait. It's voluntary? Say word? Yeah fuck that.

I'm sharing the little bit that I have learned in this past year and a half. If any of you have any further information that could help us make the dreaded transition to the cold world where nobody is OK with group showers anymore then it's your sole duty as part of Team Retired Athlete to share your findings. Godspeed.