Sport kills relationships!

God knows that the fact that I’m plagued here and there by vague fears (haha!) isn’t news. One of these fears is that of Pärli-Sport. I never understood what all this hype is about. With the treasure to the gym. With the treasure to Pilates. Go jogging with the sweetie.

In the worst case, then lifting weights together in the stories on Instagram, running a competition or Gugger knows what.

I never wanted to be a couple that sports together. Partly because I don’t like sports. I practice yoga regularly. The reason is pure reason. I much prefer eating Toblerone mousse and watching Netflix while doing yoga.

I don’t do endurance sports. So officially not. I ride my bike 90 percent of the time. No ebike. Similar to a gym membership if you ask me.

Sandro is also a passionate cyclist. And joggers. The sickles every day. That also explains his really, really good body. And his condition despite chain smoking and smoking weed. And still like to drink something about your thirst.

When Sandro comes home from a jog, he is happy, well-balanced and often quite fond of hard sex. He thinks it’s in good shape, which would do me good too. I should go with you. Everything loose. Easy to walk slowly. No outerwear, totally chill, no Instagram. Just nature, him and me. Fresh air, exercise. blah blah.

I’m having a really weak moment and I’m going to get into it. Who dares nothing and all that. Jolo and stuff. Maybe it’s great and all. Maybe Sandro and I are the exception to the great sports couple.

Are not. In fact, we are totally incompatible with sport.

Maybe even more: one or two more jogs together and our relationship is a mess. Never, never, ever, has the man made me so hateful as when I was jogging on the Limmat last Sunday afternoon.

It started with him sprinting away from me from the start. I would have taken it easy, had headphones and sound with me. But Sandro was always running like crazy, stopping somewhere and urging me on.

slogans like “Come On, There’s More” And “Hop, you’re not standing in front of a walker yet” or “My uncle Fredi is even faster there” not only did they not help, they also made me very hateful.

whatever I say. Which Sandro doesn’t take very seriously. And make a few jokes about how breathless I am.

asshole.

I sit on a bench and tell him to go. Of course not. Instead he sits down next to me and wants to hug me. I shouldn’t be so sensitive. He just wants to motivate me. All beginnings are difficult. blah blah. It’s pretty damn fast until you get faster and better and then it’s all fun blah blah.

Many other couples jog past us. Sunday on the Limmat is therefore the boom of a sporty couple.

I hate everything and everyone. Especially all those trulla’s here showing off their little perfect butts running with ease while chatting completely out of breath with their boys. And smile. And have fun. And being totally healthy and cool at the same time.

There will probably be an acai bowl and cappuccinos with oat milk for brunch soon.

Corrosive.

I want to give up, break up, eat Toblerone mousse, spend the rest of every Sunday alone in my bed.

Now Sandro is annoyed. And when Sandro is annoyed, he teases. And much worse: he imitates me. I itch, give him the middle finger, tend to get louder, catch looks at us and keep pumping myself into it until I burst into tears.

Sandro thinks I’m very dramatic. what I actually am Anyway, go with the flow when the feelings come in waves, my therapist friend once said.

So I’m going with the flow and the flow is a wild thing right now!

The story ends with Sandro running in one direction and me in the other.

In my misery I listen to very sad music. I’ll be one before the relationship is over.

I run to myself, step into the bathtub. I’m hateful, I’m angry, I’m depressed, I’m annoyed, everything.

Then my legs are shaved, my soul is caressed by the pleasantly warm bath water, my hair smells like my favorite hair mask and the shuffle function plays my favorite song.

I’m zen again

I just want to write to Sandro that we can now live again and celebrate our relationship. Then my mobile flashes. Sandro sends me a picture of his bolo boiling.

He writes about this: “Has your anger been eaten? If so, the bolo wants to be eaten next. Are you coming over, honey?”

I answer with “Yes”. And send a ps to: “You are annoying.”

That same night we decide to limit the normal sport to fucking. This will be celebrated very regularly forever and ever.

So you can now relax again, dear influencer sports and fitness couples. We’re not stealing the show yet.