Dealing With Discomfort

I'll tell you what I feel about discomfort - it's the same way I feel about short races.

Which shouldn't be a surprise, because going fast = pushing hard, which = discomfort. And discomfort?

DO. NOT. WANT!!!!!

I've noticed something strange lately. (Besides the fact that I'm still hungry all the time - and I'm not even kidding a little bit - we're talking eat 2 sushi rolls, 2 different sashimis, broth soup and 2 pieces of nigiri, and still have to chow on leftover pizza when I get home - and my hormones are still raging (ohmyGod, the VP just told me to water plants I already watered. WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!!!!!!)) No, I realized that I harbor much, much less animosity towards discomfort when I bring it on myself. And that's mental and physical.

Like . . . .

Being pregnant? Had no control over it. Absolutely miserable. Hate everyone and eveything.
Training for a triathlon? My choice, my rules. Bring on the pain. (Long-distance pain, that is.)
Doing something weird, challenging or distressing because someone said so or I need to? I'll do it because I have to, but the whole time my attitude will suck major monkey balls. Fuck you, drive through.
Doing something weird, challenging or distressing? Now, i'n't this an interestin' lil adventure?

At this point, some smartass will inevitably interject that life is all about attitude, or it's all in how you handle it. Well, no freakin' duh - I just said that. (Granted, it took me a few more words, but still.) For me, it's almost instinct: I don't even have to decide how to act, react, feel or behave, my body and mind instantly go into flip-out-mode when I'm forced to undertake something uncomfortable. So the more interesting part of this personal discovery is, to me, the origin.

Step back, bitches. I'm about to go all Plato on yo' ass.

What makes me, an ordinarily sane and reasonable person of some intelligence (HA!) react this way? Is this something that's conditioned in many Westerners (especially Americans) who, over hundreds of years of enjoying an increasing amount of free choice and personal latitude, instinctively withdraw at the thought of being stripped of their free will - or is this simply my personality? How much credit can I really give free will in this whole exchange, anyway?

So, I'm off to ponder these ponderous ponderings. I have a one-hour drive tonight to drop Kona off at Camp Bruno (Bruno being my brother's hugundous bloodhound, who has unknowingly agreed to babysit my batshit-crazy slobberpuss of a puppah while I'm at mom's). I betcha if Bruno knew he was signed up unwillingly for 5 nights and 4 days of beging chased around for nearly 20 hours a day by a slightly psychotic, turbo-charged, 50-pound bundle of pit-bully fury, he'd be thinking something like . . .

DO. NOT. WANT!!!!!