On October 12, after nine supremely awesome years of dating, the BFG surprised me with an epic marriage proposal in New York City that involved the eager participation of a former American Gladiator. No, I’m not kidding.

Grand Theft Auto V debuted this Tuesday, which was also Jason’s birthday, so to be a good girlfriend, I pre-ordered it for him so he could play this week. In addition to being able to fondle strippers at the club and visit a medical marijuana dispensary in-game, apparently you can also race in a triathlon.

You know what’s more embarrassing than being kicked out of a bar for being fall-down drunk? Being kicked out of a bar for being sober but clumsy as shit. Last night I pratfalled my way to infamy at Von Trapp’s, a new German bar that recently opened in my neighborhood. I would have actually preferred to be as sloppily drunk as the staff thought I was — at least then I would have at best a fuzzy recollection of what happened. Unfortunately, I was stone cold sober and therefore will carry this facepalmy memory with me for roughly the next seven decades. After work, I met some industry colleagues at a bar in Pioneer Square for a happy hour beer (one pint of Blue Moon at about 5:30 or 6:00 pm). From there we headed over to Capitol Hill for our dinner reservation at Barrio, a trendy Mexican restaurant. I arrived at 7:30 and nursed a somewhat unpleasant-tasting margarita, throwing in the towel about 3/4th of the way in because somehow the drink managed to become both cloyingly sweet and butt-puckeringly bitter. Content to stick with water, I then focused on unhinging my jaw and inhaling a tostata appetizer, queso fundido, superhuman quantities of guacamole and salsa, and a shredded pork taco platter. The rest of the table at this point was at a ratio of at least four drinks to my 1.75, but since everything had been spread out over the course of four hours, nobody was wasted or hammered, least of all me. When dinner concluded, the group wanted to head to Von Trapp’s down the street and meet some of their coworkers there for a couple beers. Since my food baby felt stronger and healthier than ever, I had no desire whatsoever to add another drink to the Mexican fiesta cha cha-ing in my belly, but I was curious to check out the new bar since I’d read and heard a lot of hype about the place. I tagged along, figuring I’d sneak a quick peek before calling it a night and going home. The first thing I noticed about Von Trapp’s is that it is friggin’ huge. Like supermarket huge. It was also packed to the brim, extremely loud, and uncomfortably warm. We made our way to the bar and found the group of coworkers knocking back some beers. Someone offered to buy me a cold one but I politely declined, patting my food baby and saying I had no room for anything else. I had a quick chat with one of the guys from dinner before excusing myself to find the bathroom…AND HERE’S WHEN MY EVENING TURNED INTO THE MOST CLICHE SITCOM EVER. Since this place was so gigantic I’d have better luck stumbling into Switzerland and belting out “Climb Ev’ry Mountain” than finding the bathrooms, I asked the hostess (or waitress, or whatever) to point me in the right direction. She gave me instructions but because the place was dim and I was feeling disoriented from the combination of the noise, feeling overheated, and my Mexican food baby, I ended up walking to a section of tables to the right of the bathrooms instead. Realizing my error, I turned around, tripped, and fell. I think there may have been a ramp or something, which led to this equation: Sloped floor + booties with a small heel + my complete lack of any semblance of grace or balance = Becca fall down, go boom I sat in a heap, feeling embarrassed, when the same hostess or waitress noticed me and asked if I was okay. I sprang up and forced out an overly chipper, “YeahIjusttrippedsorry,” then...

Despite blogging candidly about my crotch and readily peeing myself in public, I’m actually a somewhat modest person, especially when it comes to nudity. In high school P.E. I would marvel at the girls who’d casually stroll around the locker room buck naked while I awkwardly tried to shimmy my clothes on from under a poncho-sized shirt I’d stolen from one of my older brothers. Don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against nudity; I just prefer to keep my shit covered up to everyone who’s not my doctor or my boyfriend because the general public doesn’t need to see my intimate bits. Nowadays I’ve gotten pretty skilled at slipping out of a wet swimsuit or soggy exercise clothes and into a dry outfit without exposing a nip or a pube or a crack. I know other women are comfortable flaunting their goods and I don’t fault them for it; I just keep my head down and mind my own business, focusing on getting in and out of the locker room as innocuously as possible… …unless someone takes it upon herself to strike up a conversation with me while her chesticles are out and her unkempt pubes are exposed to the elements. That’s when things get a little awkward. Because you know what? If you’re naked and you’re talking to me, I’m gonna stare at your netherparts. How can I not? You’re freaking naked, for crying out loud, and you’re talking to me about the weather and how Ballard has a really good farmer’s market while I try not to gawk at your bare boobies. It’s human nature to stare at something that’s out of the ordinary, and a nude person chatting me up while she’s applying lotion to her ashy elbows qualifies as being a bit on the “abnormal” side of things. Take this most recent encounter. Yesterday I went to the Y to do a swim workout. I plodded towards the showers for a pre-swim rinse off and noticed a woman who was about my age engaged in a post-workout cleanse. (Random aside: the Y’s shower room has a row of exposed shower heads as well as a set of private shower stalls on the opposite side of the room. Why, if you get to choose between a set of public showers and one of the private stalls that each have a curtain and a little bench, would you willingly opt for an exposed shower? Is it a voyeurism thing? Or do you just have no fucks to give? Because I personally would rather suds up my butthole in relative privacy vs. doing it in front of a bunch of people.) She was naked, obviously, gettin’ her scrub on. I quickly glanced at her when I entered the room before looking away because I didn’t want to stare at her ridiculously huge knockers. (I mean seriously, these beasts were like wrecking balls with nipples attached.) I fumbled with a nearby shower faucet and began my quick rinse. And then: Titty McHugeBoobs: “Where do you swim outside?” Oh god. No. Don’t do this. Me, staring at the farthest corner of the room: “Hmm?” Maybe she wasn’t talking to me. Maybe she was…talking to herself? I dunno. I just hoped she wasn’t trying to get a very clothed me to talk to a very nude her. Titty McHugeBoobs: “Where do you swim outside?” Damnit. I shot a brief glance back at her and my eyes tractor-beamed back to her gigantic fun bags before I forced them to pull their gaze up towards her face. She was staring at me while sudsing her crotch. (It sounds erotic but it was...

I never thought the World Championships were easy, but after having spent the past few days training on the Big Island, I have a whole new appreciation for the athletes who race in Kona every October. This course is no joke. In fact, it kind of sucks. Okay, it doesn’t kind of suck. It really sucks. Parts of it are scenic (I am in Hawaii, after all), but most of the bike course is along a desolate stretch of highway surrounded by taint-scorching lava rock that makes me feel like I’m cycling on Mars. The heat isn’t bad (I raced in 96-degree temps in Costa Rica) but the humidity is demoralizing. Oh, and have I mentioned the wind? Yeah, let’s focus on that for now. I’ve heard plenty about the famous winds here–how they’re absolutely brutal, how they can change direction without warning, how they can blow people across the road and even knock them down–but hearing about them and experiencing them firsthand are two different beasts entirely. My only previous experience with strong winds was the demoralizing Boise 70.3 in 2010, in which I got manhandled for 56 miles and only managed to bust out a 3:27 bike split because the gusts were so bad. Those winds, as bad as I remember them being, are nothing compared to the winds here. Good grief. For our first ride, Jas and I headed out onto the highway and couldn’t help but laugh at how absurd it was to ride at an angle along the shoulder as we leaned against the wind that was hell-bent on shoving us into the road. I managed to stay calm and kept reminding myself to keep a clear head and remain focused and that freaking out or panicking would just make the situation worse. We got to the turnaround point in our ride and I clipped out my right foot. Teresa was in the middle of explaining the race bike course to us when a giant gust of wind blew at us from the right and knocked me down like a domino. Since my left foot was still clipped in, all I could do was get slammed to the pavement and pinned by my bike. I emerged with no scrapes but a few lovely bruises, although I’m happy that I got blown down while at a standstill vs. cruising along at 20-30 mph. On our way back, the crosswinds went from trying to push me into the road to attempting to shove me into the guardrail and onto the lava rocks, which actually made me more nervous than being shoved onto the highway (at least I could hope that a car would see me and swerve around me–crashing into a guardrail, on the other hand, seems like a profoundly no bueno situation). I felt a sense of accomplishment for having survived a gnarly bike ride against the famous winds, but the idea of riding an additional two hours in this mess wasn’t exactly thrilling. The next time we tackled the Queen K highway, the winds weren’t as unpredictable but were still as strong as ever. I hit a steady headwind on the way out and was flying along the highway on the way back. I couldn’t really take advantage of the free speed because I was paranoid about a sudden crosswind coming along to take me out, so I struggled a bit as I tried in vain to anticipate how the winds would be blowing (an impossible feat). My bike splits have become the strongest of the three disciplines for me, so I’m hoping I can stay strong and steady among the field since they’ll have...