As a kid, a lot of things made me proud of myself. A 102 on a spelling test (I had to get the two Bonus Words to be satisfied), getting the violin solo in orchestra, a blue ribbon at Field Day, making it into the Pioneer Playmakers drama troupe.
But during the course of my adult life, there haven’t been a whole lot of times when I felt like patting myself on the back.
I didn’t feel particularly proud of myself when I got my Master’s. My roommates had to be like, “Uh, Amy, are you going to invite us to your graduation?” I said, “You want to go? Wait, do you think my parents would want to go?”
I bought a house, but I wasn’t brimming with pride on closing day. I just signed a bunch of paper and pay my mortgage on time every month. Woo-frickin-hoo.
I teach children every damn day of the week, but I don’t walk out of my school, going, “I make a difference.” Most days, I’m just glad I haven’t doled out any corporal punishment.
But then I go to CrossFit Durham.
Today the WOD was: alternating 20/18/16/14/12/10/8/6/4/2 burpees and 2/4/6/8/10/12/14/16/18/20 double-unders
My time: 20:52 Rx*
I finished last.
Again.
And most definitely, a spectator would have said less, “What an athlete!” and more, “Wow. That’s…she’s really…trying hard, isn’t she?”
But you know what? I hate burpees, I hate double-unders, and I did ’em anyway. Afterward, I had to lie on the floor, whimpering, and hit my inhaler twice, but I finished.
Why I love CrossFit: I come in dead last and still feel proud of myself. Every time.
*Rx, y’all. I can count on two fingers how many times I’ve done a WOD as prescribed. Today was #2. (My middle finger, as it were. Which I dedicate to burpees everywhere.) Yes, I had to do a single bounce in between each double-under, but I didn’t count attempts, which is considered totally legit to do. No, if a rep was going to count, I was going to jump over that rope.
And jump I did. And burpee I did.