The Narcissist's Guide To Tough Mudder

Because why the hell else would you put yourself through this?

You finally did it. You signed up for your first Tough Mudder. You should probably tell Facebook.

You were apprehensive, but then you saw that vapid-hot fitness model, whom you follow on Instagram for no reason at all, posted a Mudder photo and hoovered up 1700 likes and you changed your mind.

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You start getting emails about "training schedules" and "building endurance" and "death indemnity clauses" and you're like:

Because seriously? Training? YOUR WHOLE LIFE IS TRAINING.

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The only thing you need to work on is the caption you'll Tweet with your finish line photo.

Oh, and you have to find something to wear that's functional but also flattering.

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But nonetheless, you dutifully put in a few extra hours at the gym (if only so those obliques will really pop for the photos).

You notice other friends posting about their puny Spartan Race or some other dumpy mud run that *wasn't* designed by British Special Forces, and you think:

But because you're running a much tougher, longer, far more intense race, you don't need to be petty. See how gracious and humble you are?

And then you get an email. Subject line: "ONE WEEK TO TOUGH MUDDER!"

The only training you've really done was solely to facilitate humblebrags (which felt great), but now your arches hurt and you haven't actually run more than a few miles at a time.

You start reviewing the obstacle course and OHMYGOD WHY WOULD THEY MAKE EMANCIPATED HUMANS RUN THROUGH LIVE WIRES?

And you signed up for the last heat of the day (so you'd have time to sleep in and get ready and shave everything), but somehow you're registered in the first wave and have to be up at 5:00AM???

WEEKLONG TRAINING CRAM SESSION (because that's always a great idea).

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You've burned the candle at both ends, and on race day, your teammates can barely even get you out of the car.

You check in and you're told repeatedly (as you were in several emails you didn't read) that it would be unwise to bring your phone on the course. You won't be able to take action shots of this thing. You're coming undone.

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You get to the start line and secretly hope for a sinkhole to open beneath your feet.

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Adrenaline and fear coursing through your veins, you take off in a dead sprint. You fly by everybody. THIS IS YOUR MOMENT AND IT WILL GO VIRAL because the one thing you did verify (after you grudgingly left your phone in your bag) was where the event photographers would be stationed.

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The ice bath obstacle (aka "Arctic Enema") approaches. You're ready for this one. This photo op will be FLAWLESS.

But then you actually jump into the ice cold water and realize you're not, in fact, a cold-blooded reptile who's impervious to extreme temperatures, and you emerge looking less than spectacular.

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Your adrenaline has been frozen solid. Now everyone's passing YOU. Even though this is not a timed race and is supposed to be about camaraderie and team spirit, you feel like an utter failure and you're pretty convinced you'll be a humiliating meme before the halfway point.

But then: HOPE. In this case, someone hot who's running roughly as fast as you are. JUST LIKE THE COLLAGE ON YOUR VISION BOARD.

Vigor renewed, you blast through the course, passing him every mile or so, then letting him pass you. You don't even care that you can't feel your quads and you keep tripping over your own feet. It makes you seem endearing and real to your Mudder Crush (who hasn't noticed you because, in case you've forgotten, he's participating in a 10+ mile obstacle course).

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But then you finally get to that dreaded electroshock obstacle, and as you're mentally preparing for it, the person in front of you gets caught in a snarl of high voltage wires. They're trapped as they're shocked over and over before your horrified eyes.

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But there's a crowd watching and cameras and a merch counter (MAYBE THEY HAVE TANK TOPS!) waiting on the other side of the finish line. You steel yourself and dash through it, and at this point, you're so terrified you don't care what you look like. You just need to cross that #*@%ing finish line alive.

You made it! And since you left your teammates in the dust, you have a good fifteen minutes before they get there to clean yourself up for group photos!

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Once your teammates FINALLY show up and you've wiped off just enough mud to still look rakishly sexy, you round up everyone for a casual photo (or 50).

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As you share your accomplishment, your heart swells with a joy that can only come from the thinly-veiled bitter envy of forgotten friends and other online acquaintances you'll never actually meet but who feel compelled to Like it anyway because otherwise why even follow each other?

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Congratulations! The world stands in jealous awe of your monumental achievement and the physical perfection it yielded. That's gotta feel pretty good, right?

Hey, while you're there, you should sign up for another race!

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Okay, fair enough. But if you did, you could post ANOTHER photo from today with zero risk of caustic retribution...

Thought so. See you at the next one!