Too Fat for Toes-to-Bar

My sister-in-law is a gifted songwriter, and about ten years ago, she wrote a hilarious collar-tugger of a song called “Too Fat for Breakfast”, in which she (a normal-sized person) outlined some of the ways our society made her feel like a lumbering, jiggly mess (“Last-season Jennifer Aniston/You look like a lollipop”). Here’s my CrossFit-themed homage to that song.

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About half the time, I’m tremendously proud of my CrossFit accomplishments. And then something happens. It’s usually that I see photos of myself working out. In fact, in one of my Fat CrossFitter posts, I addressed my resemblance to a certain Martin Short character. And there are just no other words to capture what happens inside my chest when I look at these pictures except abject horror.

Recently, I had to ask for a Facebook courtesy-delete of a photo of me holding a medicine ball, taken at three-quarters view so my hips are wiiiiiiiide as Mother Ginger’s. Seriously, it looks as if, were I to pull out the bottom of my spandex, nobody would be surprised if some children ran out. In addition, I’m looking down, so my double-chin is in spectacular spectacle.

These photos make me want to close myself in my house and communicate with the outer world only via USPS.

But sometimes it’s not a photo. Sometimes it’s an exercise that’s standard to CrossFit that I’m incapable of doing, and I feel like a failure pile because I’ve been at it for two and half years now.

I’m not even talking muscle-ups or anything. People way stronger than I am can’t do muscle-ups. I’ll probably never do a muscle-up.

But I still can’t do a pull-up. And I’m still too fat for toes-to-bar.

Here’s that story.

A recent CrossFit WOD required as many reps as possible in 7 minutes of:

  • three 95-lb clean & jerk
  • three toes-to-bar
  • six 95-lb clean & jerk
  • six toes-to-bar
  • nine, etc.

At this point, (it seems amazing but) a 95-lb clean & jerk is not difficult for me. My max is 129. So the first three clean & jerks were nothing. Then I stepped up to the pull-up rig, grabbed the bar, summoned every ounce of strength, and kipped as hard as I could. And my toes totally hit the bar.

I was like, OK, I’ll do another. I took a giant swinging swing of a swing, and my toes once again made contact. Then I had to rest. I missed the next one and had to rest. I think I got the one after that. Or maybe there was another missed rep in there.

Back on the barbell. Easy six reps.

Back on the rig. Missed the first rep. Efffffffffffffffff.

I managed to get through the six, interspersed with another three or four missed reps (which are the fucking worst because you’ve done all the work, just to get within an inch or two and have the rep not count).

And time was up. 18 reps. For comparison, the relatively fit people got 50ish reps, and the super-athletes got more than 90.

I wasn’t even winded because I had to spend all that time resting for my next toes-to-bar attempt so I did nine anger-clean-and-jerks after the buzzer.

I know, I know, I’ve made progress. When I started CrossFit, I would dangle tenuously from the bar and, with a great heave, pull my knees up to about navel level. Now, I can do nine singles. If you give me a few minutes.

But I still look like Jiminy Glick when I’m doing them.

Me & Jiminy 2

Aaaaaaand now I’ll be closing myself in my house and communicating with you people only via USPS. Send your addresses.

Retrobruxist Friday 3/29/13, or On Being “Desperate” (Now with Norovirus!)

Ugh. Norovirus. Or food poisoning, or something. When I wasn’t exploding from both ends, I was curled up on my pull-out couch with the dogs, moaning. Moaning! I literally moaned for, like, 15-minute stretches. Then I would watch two episodes of How I Met Your Mother, and then I would turn it off so I could moan some more.

Picture me there behind Redford, moaning into his ear. He was very tolerant.
Picture me there behind Redford, moaning into his ear. He was very tolerant.

Seems to be gone now (knock wood). I’m vertical today, and I’ve eaten a banana and some Rice Chex.

In other news, my dad swung through town earlier this week. :)

Talking to my sister on the phone: “Amy picked me up in the middle of the melee at RDU. I was nervous because of the guy on the goddamn lawn mower going back and forth.” (It was a cop on a Segway.)

Amid bon mots, he said something about how I seem, here on the blog, “almost desperate for a relationship”. Isn’t that the worst word to hear about yourself? Desperate? Wasn’t that the ultimate high school take-down? “God, she’s so… desperate.”

But he’s right. I do seem, here on the blog, almost desperate for a relationship. I’d even take out the ‘almost’.

That’s for two reasons. First, both ends of the spectrum, the one that goes from “Victorious Is What Happened” to “Cyclone of Despair”, are compelling, but the middle? Not really, right? The “I Got a Solid Eight Hours So My Day Wasn’t Too Exhausting” and the “Grocery Store, PetSmart, and Home Depot in One Outing—High-five, Me” that make up most of my life, I mean, I’m pretty excited about them, but they make for vanilla reading. So, I’m going to write about the times when I’m either feeling a sense of hope or one of catastrophe. And granted, the latter happens more often and is usually funnier.

So that’s the main thing. You hear about my being desperate to be in a relationship because that’s what’s interesting.

The second thing is that I’m desperate to be in a relationship.

Not desperate. But yeah, kinda desperate. Two reasons, I like companionship, and I want kids. In the post I just linked to, I said I wasn’t an extrovert. But I am. I’m an extrovert. Being around people energizes extroverts (and saps the energy of introverts). I definitely get energy from being with people.

However, I’m shy. People say, “Isn’t that the same as introverted?” No. Shy means I’m scared of people I don’t know. Like, all of them.

I’m scared of people, but I need people—ain’t that the worst?

Anyhow, it’s got me thinking, that’s probably why pretty much all my dating in the last four years has been online. Because I don’t make eye contact with people I don’t know (because I’m scared of them) when I’m out in the real world, so it’s hard to connect. Maybe I should try that? Eye contact? With people I don’t know? My hands are sweating.

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Three years ago, I wrote a POWM! I write POWTRY!

Two years ago, 70,000 people heard me tell a story.

A year ago, I was trying to control the controllables. Maybe making eye contact with strangers is controlling a controllable? Or maybe I try a different website. A friend recently sent me this one, which takes a sort of different approach to the whole online dating thing… I’m gonna go lie back down and moan some more.

Happy Retrobruxist Friday, y’all.

The Foster Chronicles: ‘Nita, The End

Previously… (The Foster Chronicles: ‘Nita, Week 9)

Day 1

As it’s ‘Nita’s last full day with me, we take a big walk and schedule extra snuggling sessions in the morning

Bonita Day Snuggling

and the evening.

Bonita La La La La Laaaaaaa

Day 2

I drive to High Point to meet Lainey for the drop-off. ‘Nita’s very happy to see her new mom and her five-year-old human brother because she’s always happy to see everyone, but—and I’ma go ahead and anthropomorphize the shit out of her right now—she seems confused and concerned as I get in the car and drive off.

Bonita Adopted
TOTALLY ALLERGIES. DIDN’T CRY. SHUT UP, YOU CAN’T PROVE ANYTHING.

People comment that I can just change the name! and transfer admin rights! and that it’s easy!, and I know that but I don’t want to. I want to keep her page exactly as it is. It represents me and ‘Nita and our relationship, plus what do I know?, but I think it’s a good portfolio item for my new career.

Day 3

Redford and Violet are a little weirded out—they run to the spare room and check the crate when we come inside—but happy, I think, to have 100% of my attention.

I try to teach Violet how to snuggle belly to belly. She tolerates it for a few minutes before repositioning herself at my side and making it clear she prefers that I just rub her chest k that’s better thanx.

Day 4

Lainey makes a new page for ‘Nita. Except now she’s Ruca. And not nearly as funny.

Day 5

Friends keep asking if I’m going to foster again but with that oh-god-don’t-do-it tone.

And I get it. It’s difficult, and people who love you don’t wish you difficulty.

But really, fostering has given my life meaning. For a few months at a time I have a purpose. For a few months at a time there’s a reason that the world is better because I’m here.

And it is better. Better for the dogs, better for the people. Let’s not mince words: ‘Nita would be dead right now if I hadn’t fostered her. She was scheduled to be put to sleep the day volunteers from CCB walked into a shelter in Wake County, pulled her, and delivered her to me.

And what a tragedy that would’ve been. ‘Nita made me happy. She made her 300 Facebook fans very happy. And from what I gather, she’s making her new family very, very happy.

So no, I’m not going to foster again right now, but I probably will again in the future, and let’s not pretend that’s not a good thing.

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Retrobruxist Friday 3/22/13, or a Decree

Two things happened. A month ago, a friend got a job at a small marketing firm in Durham. About a week later, an acquaintance who was thinking about adopting ‘Nita left me a voicemail. In it, he said, “You’re doing a great job marketing her on Facebook.”

Something happened in my head, something like: marketing job –> me marketing –> marketing job for me

I’ve been wanting to make a career change for a while now. My desire was shorn up by reading this essay a student wrote three years ago. Wow. I’m not that teacher anymore. I’m not “happy almost all the time”. I don’t “laugh a LOT”. I’m definitely not the “BEST TEACHER EVER”. I’m glad I used to be, or at least that I was for that kid, that year.

But I’m burnt out. (I hear that’s a thing that happens to teachers.)

So now I’m looking for a new job/career. Possibly in marketing. And it’s going to inspire me and challenge me and play to my strengths. I hereby decree it, and the Universe will make it so.

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Two years ago, I asked you Avid Bruxistists about the ratio and content of similarities/differences in a partnership, and you guys totally fucking brought it in the comments section.

My readership is small, but it is full of smarty-pants. Smarty-pantses? What the plural of smarty-pants? Is it like attorneys general? Smarties-pant?

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A year ago, I was struggling. Seems to be a pattern here—late winter suuuuuuuucks. However, I am tapering my amino acids again, and I’m not freaking out. Yet. Plus, Daylight Savings Time loves me and wants me to be happy.

Happy Retrobruxist Friday, y’all.

Fayshun! Amy Goes Rogue, and It Doesn’t Go That Well

We’ve gotten to the point in Amy’s Fantastic Fashion Voyage when you’ll be seeing some of the same items as before but in different combinations. As I mentioned, after our excursion to the outlets, we put all my purchases on Kate’s bed, she laid out ensembles, and I took pictures of them with my phone. I never would’ve put the following items together, but I have photographic evidence in my stream that it’s a legit outfit, so don’t fight with me.

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Skirt and cardigan from Ann Taylor Loft, orange tie shirt from Banana Republic, motherfucking tights, and–look at that–short boots.

I liked this outfit OK. I mean, it’s a skirt, so I was uncomfortable as hell all day. Also, I feel like I look real hippy (wide-below-the-waist, not peace-love-drugs) in this skirt, but Kate said. Kate said.

Next up is an item you haven’t seen yet. Kate fell in love with this stripey blazer from Ann Taylor Loft, and she promised I could pair the polka-dotted cami with it (even though it looked real trippy to me), so I did.

But I also messed things up with an unfortunate choice of pantaloons.

Camisole and blazer from Ann Taylor Loft, plus previously purchased trouser jeans.
Ann Taylor Loft blazer, Ann Taylor Loft cami… How about if I just tell you if things *aren’t* Ann Taylor Loft from now on? Short boots! Not ATL!

Also not ATL, trouser jeans from <hangs head> Coldwater Creek. Stop laughing! I swear they looked good when I bought them a year ago! They’ve just gotten all weird and squeezy in the wrong places from the laundry. I showed this photo to Kate, and she said, “Oh. They have side pockets?” I admitted as much. She said side pockets were a no-no.

So, Take 2: Same blazer, white tank, grey Gap slacks, schmutz on mirror.

IMG_4503
What could those possibly be on your feet, Amy?

Kate gave this outfit the stamp of approval. Feeling like Matlock [let the record reflect that the Avid Bruxist has never seen Matlock], I said, “But, Kate, these pants that you made me buy have (dun dun DUN) side pockets! Ha!”

She said it didn’t matter because they weren’t jeans.

But… jeans are pants.

Aren’t they?

So confused.

That wasn’t the only time I tried to slip an item from my old wardrobe into the mix. This attempt was a little more successful, I think.

IMG_4127
Same ol’ grey slacks, but with a silky shirt I got from Old Navy one million years ago.

I showed Kate and our friend Lindsay this picture and asked, “Would this outfit be a good candidate for a statement belt?” Kate said yes, a skinny belt right at the smallest part of the waist (so high!), and I could get one cheap at Target. When I asked what color, they both started shouting,

PURPLE.

YELLOW.

RED.

PINK.

ORANGE.

They basically named all the colors. I went to Target yesterday.

Oh, man, I hope they said turquoise. They said all the colors. They must've said turquoise, right? You guys said turquoise, right?
Now that I think about it… Oh, man, I hope they said turquoise. They said all the colors. They must’ve said turquoise, right? You guys said turquoise, right?

So far, a hit and a miss, but then I realized it was Skirt Week. I didn’t want to wear the navy one again (it’s so short!), and I didn’t want to wear the pencil skirt again (it’s so tight!), so I pulled out a skirt from the back of my closet.

That evening, Kate was lifting on one side of the gym, and I was lifting on the other. Between sets, I mouthed, “I wore a skirt today,” and pantomimed to illustrate.

She made all kinds of sexy gestures back at me.

At the end of the strength segment, I went and got my phone with the picture on it. Before I showed it to her, I said, “Listen, it was a skirt I’ve had for awhile.”

Kate cocked her head and frowned. “Yeah?”

“It was a hand-me-down from a friend…”  She started to shake her head.

“…in maybe 2004?” I said. Kate coughed.

I said, “It’s paisley. Is that bad?”

And Kate took a lap around the gym to compose herself.

IMG_4588

Now I was proud of myself, as usual, for just putting the damn thing on. (I also wore my TALL BOOTS, which [sadly] are super-uncomfortable because I’m a short person, so they kept jamming into the fat part of my inner-knee-thigh area. They also rubbed pills into my motherfucking tights.) Whether Kate had a problem with the skirt’s pattern was unclear, but she did say, “It’s too long for you. It doesn’t hit you in the right spot.”

Wah. I don’t get this “right spot” business. The paisley one hits me just about where the pencil skirt does, and Kate said the pencil skirt is “made of magic”. Harrumph.

She said if I want to keep the skirt, I need to get it hemmed. Nope. To Goodwill it goes.

Back to Kate-sanctioned articles of clothing:

The item you haven't seen here is the blouse. It's a sleeveless, navy thing with cool lacy work at the top. I had to wear a strapless bra with it.
The item you haven’t seen here is the Gap blouse. It’s a sleeveless, navy thing with cool lacy work at the top. I had to wear a strapless bra with it.

Those orange pants. I like them. I do. It’s just, my lower half kinda draws the eye all on its own just with its… volume, you know? It’s hard to come around to the idea of adding the sartorial equivalent of a neon sign.

Speaking of strapless bra, ready yourselves, steady yourselves, hold onto your nuts for the I’m-here-for-sex outfit: dark Gap jeans, Banana Republic top, pointy Nine West flats, and purple pleather jacket (not pictured, but you’ve seen it).

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Anybody else disappointed?

I didn’t feel like I was there for sex. At best, I felt like I was there for a poorly-timed kiss next to my car after an awkward second date.

In actuality, I was there for an evening with my friends after which I went home alone to my dogs. As per uszh.

Coming soon: JEANS.

(Anybody want to go jeans shopping?)

The Foster Chronicles: ‘Nita, Week 9

Previously… (The Foster Chronicles: ‘Nita, Week 8)

Day 1

IMG_4709
Monday snuggles.

Except that I stay up too late writing the last CrossFit post, so it’s after midnight by the time we hit the couch. No! Bad Amy!

Day 2

Lainey writes to say she got word that they’re approved! We exchange celebratory messages. Her 7-year-old wants to let me know, since I’ll be sad, that I can visit her any time and that they’ll send lots of pictures.

You’d think CCB would’ve let me know first. :/ I email the president to make sure it’s true before I announce ‘Nita announces on Facebook.

Bonita Adopted

We head to class. ‘Nita really is tremendously smart. She learns so fast, and her behavior has improved exponentially. The instructor doesn’t even have to put up the screen. ‘Nita makes one or two aws—like “Aw man, I’m not even going to get to say hi to the other dogs?”—at the beginning, but that’s it.

Bonita No Monkey Noises

Day 3

Because I have a 3:30 appointment in Chapel Hill after work, ‘Nita’s in her crate for 10 hours. I desperately want to go to the gym, so we do a quick 20-minute walk. The dogs are like, What even was that?, because we always do the 2.5-mile loop. I put her back in her crate and feel guilty as hell. About going to the gym. Is this what parenthood feels like?

Day 4

It’s a nice afternoon, so people are out and about in the neighborhood. Just as I open the screen door to let ‘Nita go potty, I notice three girls on bicycles pedaling in slow circles 100 yards away. ‘Nita tenses. I’m almost able to grab her but miss by this much as she flings herself over the rail and jets toward the bicycle girls. I yell, “SHE’S FRIENDLY,” and by the time I reach them, all three girls are cooing and petting her. But I’m peeved. I can’t trust her to be out there by herself for one second. I snatch her collar, hitch the leash to it, and fuss at her all the way home.

Once we’re inside she won’t stop wigging out—jamming her nose against the windows and barking—about the bicycle girls. I have to put her in her crate for a time-out. Eventually, she calms herself.

Bonita Amen

This caption is my favorite ‘Nita-ism that I’ve come up with.

Day 5

Fun with iPhone apps.

Bonita Brown or Blue Eyes

Day 6

Gorgeous day. After the gym, because I like to torture myself, we do our usual long walk, and then I mow the lawn. I can hear ‘Nita’s protests from inside the house. (She’s in her crate though because I learned the lawn mower lesson the hard way with Tulip.)

Bonita First Mate's Log

Day 7

Lainey and I finalize plans. Mid-day Tuesday, I’ll meet her in High Point for the handoff.

Bonita Venue Change

It’ll be a huge relief not to have to rotate ‘Nita and Violet anymore. Of course it’ll be a huge relief. And Redford and Violet deserve the attention I’ll be able to pay them once ‘Nita’s gone. Of course they deserve it.

But damn. I’ll miss that snuggly dog.

Retrobruxist Friday 3/15/13, Plus Mullings

I’ve been mulling amy a’s post from Wednesday. I do that a lot—mull. Just mull and mull. Some might call it “ruminating” or “perseverating”, but I prefer “mulling” because then I don’t feel like such a crazy person… Hahahaha. Like anyone believes that. Anyway, here are my ruminations/perseverations/mullings:

1. amy a and I are almost exactly the same age, so it’s possible that it’s not too late for me to find someone. Hope!

2. I can’t think of anybody who’s there on the periphery that I might have been overlooking. Despair.

3. I really do believe I’ve taken a good hard look at myself, and I’ve worked on my own shit. And I think I’ve been clear about what I want. I do want “something simple and stable”: a fun, supportive, committed relationship with somebody who wants to have kids with me. …I clearly have some blind spot. There’s something I’m not seeing.

4. I’ve always thought timing was bullshit. I thought, if you’re each into the other, you’re into each other; everything else is just excuses. But now I’m rethinking that.

5. “In my efforts to always be in control of my life and heart, I’d forgotten the joy of love is not being so wary of it all the time.” I’m so wary. All the time. Is this the blind spot? That I’m wary? That I put too much effort into being control of my life and heart?

6. “And the 20 years of dating and relationships of all shapes and sizes? Well, they just let me know that when I finally was ready, I’d have years of experience cementing the fact that when you know when it’s right, it is.” Please, god(dess)/whoever, let me be able to say this at some point. Soon?

7. I can’t stop boo-hooing about this. I love you, amy a. Also, fuck you.

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Three years ago, Violet was giving me a heart attack.

Considering my CrossFit post from this week drove 12 times my normal traffic, how about I give you The Blue (D)evil from two years ago.

Nothing I wrote this time last year is worth reading. :(

Happy Retrobruxist Friday, y’all.

Guest Blog: Eating Crow

Hey! You’ns remember last week when I had writer’s block? And remember guest blogger amy a, who has stepped in twice before during dry times for the Avid Bruxist? (Her first post was called Dating in One’s 30s: A Guide for Those Who Don’t Fucking Have to Do It; the second, The Relationship I’m in Already.) Well, my own word faucet seems to have opened back up, but she sent me this and told me, “it’s kinda me eating crow from my last blog,” and I read it, and as always with her stuff, I started having lots of feelings, plus who doesn’t love it when somebody eats crow? Also, who doesn’t love my run-on sentences?

Anyway, I feel like this piece is important for me—I’ve read it three times, and I’ve gotten progressively more teary each time—so I’m posting it. Tomorrow, maybe the fashion post, or the teaching one, or another shitty movie recap, but tonight—tonight I’m going to read this ten more times and take a hard look at myself.

So about a year ago, I made a decision about curbing some bad dating behavior on my part.  Oh, it’s not like I was going on a string of bad dates at the time, in fact, I was on hiatus. I just decided to take it seriously. Or take myself seriously in relation to it, that is.

If, as Ghandi says, you gotta be the change you wanna see on this planet, then I had to take some really hard, embarrassing looks into my dating world. Sure, I had fun with it. I got to date a lot of guys on occasion, who for the most part weren’t looking at anything past that, which was fine, because I wasn’t really either.  Kinda like how I never wanted to own a home because the thought of some permanent place of dwelling made me claustrophobic, even though I’ve lived at the same place in NC since moving back here 4 years ago. And I lived at the same place in LA for the last seven years I was there. Huh. Go figure. Yeah. Was it possible I was kidding myself?

Yes, yes it was. I’ve done some pretty ballsy things in my life. I moved to LA to pursue my acting career. I drove across country in the days before cell phones (gasp) and lived to tell the tale. I walked into offices of big wigs and somehow didn’t get kicked out but instead booked parts. I lived with and broke up with addicts and found my dignity tarnished but intact. I moved back across the country a month after shooting my last gig in LA because I decided over that last year that I no longer wanted the life I had there. I soul searched and found my passions again, and lost them, and rediscovered them.  And even though I thought I never wanted something simple or stable—I certainly protested it long and hard enough that over the past year—I started to listen to exactly how loudly I was doing so.  

So I stopped.  And I took a hard look. And what I wanted was not what I thought I did. And it certainly didn’t reflect what I was going after. And then I went out on a date or two, and even though they didn’t work out, I could respect myself for how I handled things. I calmed down. I opened up. And then I fell in love with someone who had been there all along, in the periphery.

Timing is everything, it really is. In my efforts to always be in control of my life and heart, I’d forgotten the joy of love is not being so wary of it all the time. That letting someone who really would have my best interests at heart into my life can be the most liberating thing ever. I was so tired of holding on so tight my whole life. If I stopped fighting it, and just relaxed, it really could be easier than I ever thought.

They say when you know, you know. And I did. Years ago. I knew so much that even after he bought me a plane ticket to see him, I decided last minute not to go because I knew it’d get serious. And then even after we started talking again a while after that, I still knew. But I didn’t listen. That was too easy.  I was too busy trying to be in control of things and date men who didn’t take me as seriously and had at least one Monumental Tattoo or Monumental Problem because that meant I could keep them at some sort of arm’s length. And then almost certainly not get what I really wanted. And then continue the cycle.

So, when I did slowly just start staring right at what I always wanted but was too afraid to admit to, it was quite stunning that I started getting it back a hundred fold.  And it really was like breathing. And of course I kicked myself a thousand times for not doing it sooner. But it’s highly likely I wouldn’t have known how to deal with it then.

We met at a camp in high school for gifted kids. We ran in similar circles in college. We reconnected over Facebook a few years ago. And when I saw him in person for the first time in years, it was right out of a movie. Seriously. Like, Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan in “Sleepless in Seattle” type fireworks. And everything made sense. We got engaged shortly thereafter.  And the 20 years of dating and relationships of all shapes and sizes? Well, they just let me know that when I finally was ready, I’d have years of experience cementing the fact that when you know when it’s right, it is.

As always, I’ll let you readers comment first. Thank you, amy a!