You remember when I did 1,500 push-ups in June? Well, having that goal, writing it on the wall, committing to a partner was really helpful.
I wanted to work on a new challenge in July: pull-ups. Coach Phil (who will be moving over to CrossFit RTP in October—yay for him! wah for me!) convinced me that, as sexy as 1,500-whatevers-in-a-month sounds, it’s just not the best way to get results. He recommended volume training: specifically, up to five reps on the minute for twenty minutes, twice a week, alternating pull-ups and chin-ups.
I harassed a bunch of other people into doing “Pull-Up Club” with me and even started a Facebook page so we could track our progress together. And for the most part, it’s been really good.
Now I can’t do unassisted pull-ups, which means I have to tie gigantoid rubber bands to the pull-up bar and put one foot inside to support some (read: a lot) of my weight. When I started at CrossFit last year, I was using the black band, the hugest, thickest one. It’s so thick that I couldn’t even get into it myself. I’d have to have one of the coaches pull it down so I could shove my foot in the loop. The other day, my sister-wife and I tried the black band just for shits and giggles, and—no joke—I felt like I was in one of those Johnny Jump-ups you put babies in. I worried I might shoot through the roof.
So good, yeah, I’ve worked my way down the bands for the past year, and during this month went from green and skinny purple, to green, to blue and skinny purple, to (today) blue. I’m not even close to doing an unassisted pull-up, but I’ve made progress, and I’m going to continue with the volume training until I do. I guess.
All this to say, you know, I’m proud of myself for the work I’ve done, and I know shit doesn’t change overnight and the food craziness is what’s in the way, but I saw a photo of myself from the gym this morning, and it made me want to jump off a bridge. The other day, one of my friends mentioned my upper body—just a throw-away remark, but clearly contrasting it with my lower body—and I laughed, which is what I do, because it’s comical, really. There’s something very carnival fun house about the area from my waist to my knees.
But I just hate it. I hate my body.
And I know I should STFU because, unlike Aaron, I have one that works.
And I know this is when people tell me don’t say that, don’t think that, you’re beautiful, look what you’ve accomplished.
But I’m telling you, don’t do it. Don’t tell me that. There’s nothing you can say that will make me not hate my body today.