As y’all know, sometimes I write about CrossFit, and I try to make it a story, not just a recap of my workout, but for people who don’t do CrossFit—I don’t know—it could be boring.
At the same time, folks who are interested in reading about CrossFit may not give a crap about my cooking mishaps or disastrous love life.
So!
I’ve created a tumblr called Fat CrossFitter. (Twitter feed here. Facebook page here.) I’ll link to some of my old CrossFit posts but also tell new stories about when I’m up in the gym just workin on my fitness. And I’ll make sure to update everybody with PRs on my HSPU and my new 1RM on HBBS, and OMG, WTF? LOL, I kid you!
Anyway, if you want to hear about the trials and tiny victories of this Fat CrossFitter, well, there you go.
In my professional life, I’m graded on a rubric. Did you know that? There are six standards upon which teachers are evaluated, and for each we are deemed Developing, Proficient, Accomplished, or Distinguished.
A couple weeks ago, I was out with some friends, one of whom is also a teacher, and we got to talking about the rubric. For shits and giggles, I suggested we use it to rate ourselves in other aspects of our lives.
Honestly, I can’t remember much—we were a couple cocktails in—except that Meg rated herself Distinguished in both Being Alone and Handling Her Shit (a super-accurate self-assessment), but I’ve been thinking about it lately, and here’s my self-evaluation.
Developing
1. Dressing myself. I still don’t know what looks good, what to buy, or how to put it together. It takes a ton of emotional effort for me to dress up. All I want to wear is jeans, my Obama hoodie, and
these guys.
But I’m getting better. I wore skinny jeans, for Christ’s sake.
2. Dating/being in a relationship. You know how everybody’s always like, “Gahd, another Taylor Swift break-up song?! When is she gonna realize that the only constant in all these situations is her?”?
Yeah, I realize it’s me. I do. I’ve done a lot of work and put myself out there, but clearly I need more practice/support/guidance.
To that end, two things:
(1) In a maneuver I’m calling Amy’s Last-Ditch Campaign to Get Inseminated by a Dude She’d Like to Chill with for Awhile/Maybe Forever (ALDCGIDSLCAMF, for short), I joined Match Fucking Dot Com. For one month. ONE MONTH, and end scene—I shall forever abandon my Sisyphean online dating endeavors.
And (2) to quote Homeland Security: If You See Something, Say Something™. Friends, you have to tell me when you see the metaphorical spinach in my teeth, OK? If there’s some invisible-to-myself road block I’m throwing up, let your girl know. For real.
Proficient
1. You know, as recently as a few months ago, I would’ve put cooking in the Developing category, but I’ve had some pretty consistent victories lately. ‘Member those carnitas? <licks chops>
Also, I marinated chicken. (Me, out on the town with friends: “You guys, I’m marinating chicken right now.” Friend: (pause) “Is it… is it in the fridge?” Hahaha. I couldn’t blame her for checking—I’ve made some questionable judgment calls in the past.)
I made Chinese chicken salad with it.
There’s marinated chicken up in there somewhere, swear to god.
That sludgy business in the jelly jar? Homemade sesame-ginger motherfucking salad dressing. Booyah.
I mean, every once in a while, mistakes are made.
In hindsight, there were a number of points at which a different decision could have rendered a more desirable outcome.
But for the most part, I’m feeding myself yummy, healthy things, so I’m gonna go ahead and declare myself Proficient in the cooking department.
Hubris? Probably.
2. CrossFit. Listen, I’m never going to be competitive. That’s OK. But I’ve been lifting heavy objects for nearly three years, and I’ve got pretty skrong, y’all (265-lb deadlift last night—what what!). And my form on most things is solid. Coach Rich watched me doing snatches the other day, and he said, “God, you’re so good at that.” :)
3. Storytelling/hosting storytelling events. If you’ve seen me at the Monti, I think you’d agree I’m getting better and better.
Accomplished
1. Teaching. I’m a good teacher. I’m not an exceptional teacher. I don’t take work home with me, and I don’t blaze any pedagogical trails, but I try to do cool things with my students, and I work hard to improve my practice every year.
2. Fostering dogs/getting them adopted. Git yer dogs here at Amy’s House o’ Pit Bulls!
3. Blogging. I have a readership. It’s small but, based on a pie chart I only sort of understand, I believe very loyal. (Thanks, guys!)
Distinguished
1. Jackshit.
Except one thing that I won’t share here because this is a family show. ;)
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Now you go. Don’t be shy. This is not about judgment. It’s about personal growth.
I was just settling down to read my book when I heard Redford doing his there’s-something-I-want-that-I-can’t-get-at bark. Very different from his person-on-the-property bark (a pretty steady stream of friendly but emphatic woofs) or his other-dog-walking-by (“I’M FREAKIN OUT, MAN”). Definitely different from Violet’s let-me-in, which is a single, irritated arf. (Redford doesn’t bark to be let in. He just punches the door.)
Anyway, his there’s-something-I-want-that-I-can’t-get-at bark is very rhythmic, high-pitched bark/pause/high-pitched bark/pause/whine/whine/whine. I put my book down and went out onto the deck. He was in the yard, his attention focused on something on the other side of the fence. Now Mini-Poodle hasn’t been around in six months—I think his family moved away—but sometimes
Paco’ll stop by. To say hi.Sometimes he wears his camo sweatshirt with the skulls on it. Tough guy.
Others, he comes over for a game of hide n’ seek.
Where’s Paco?
But not that day. No Paco. Redford was barking at a spot on the ground about three feet beyond the slats. I scooted out there, and looky-loo, there was
this lil fella.
A wee baby squirrel, most likely fallen out of his nest
way the fuck up there.
Seriously, that pin oak is, like, fifty feet tall. Thank goodness he fell on a bed of leaves, rather than my gravel driveway or one of the railroad ties that boxes it in.
I don’t know how old squirrels are when their eyes open, but he was not however old that was, and he was breathing but not really moving. I bolted inside and asked Facebook what to do, naturally. People sent me links to wildlife rescue organizations, and I read all the stuff online:
Don’t give it food or water.
Put it in a box with towels, but leave it outside near where you found it in case the mom comes back… though she probably won’t—it wouldn’t have been climbing out of its nest if she’d been around; most likely she got et up or smooshed by a car. :(
Bring it in at night. Make sure it’s warm.
Yadda yadda yadda.
I didn’t have a shoebox, so I drove over to Kate’s house. She didn’t have a shoebox either, but she gave me
the world’s nicest squirrel apartment.
Back at home, I lined it with pieces of towel and went to capture the little dude. He must’ve recovered from his stunned state because he had some pep in his step.
He jumped out of the box twice; I had to tuck him in with the towel to make him stay. The only place in the house I felt comfortable keeping him was the half-bathroom, whose door I could latch, thereby reducing the likelihood of wild -game dog snacks. I set the box in the sink, put a heating pad on low on one side, and headed back to the internet to see who might have more to offer this guy than the world’s nicest squirrel apartment and probably some close calls with becoming a single-use squeaky toy.
Found some contacts, people who rescue all manner of wayward varmints. Left a message with one and spoke with another, though she just reiterated what the website told me to do and said to call her in the morning if the mother didn’t come scoop him. Then a friend texted, she had an in with a rehabber; she would pass along my number. Woot!
Feeling hopeful, I got up to check on my wee rodent. At the bathroom, I opened the door a crack, slipped inside, and shut the door firmly behind me. I gently lifted up a corner of the towel… a little higher… hm… a little more…
He wasn’t in the fucking box.
I looked around the room, which is, like, 9 square feet—he couldn’t have gone far. Not in the sink. Not behind the toilet. (Not in the toilet—I’m a lid-down gal.) Not in the open bag of dog food on the floor.
My eyes drifted to the 1 1/2-inch crack under the door. Oh fuck. Could he have crawled out? No, the dogs would’ve made a ruckus. And a grease spot on the kitchen floor.
Then I saw the 1 1/2-inch crack under the cabinet that houses the sink. I was on my hands and knees in a jiffy, temple to the floor, and there he was—scooched back underneath, shrugging and nodding. Poor baby, he must’ve fallen off the sink! I mean, only three feet, rather than the goddamn base-jump he took from the pin oak, but still—onto ceramic! :(
I had to get him out of there; it was going to be too cold on the tile all night. Not wanting to risk causing any internal bleeding, I forewent the broomstick and grabbed the fly swatter. It was good enough; it gave me sufficient leverage to sweep him forward. But every time I almost got him out in the open, he scrambled back to the back.
I seriously fly-swatter-wrestled a baby squirrel for ten minutes. That’s something I can say I’ve done with my life.
Finally, on one whisk to the fore, I managed to get him going ass-first, and his tail poked out from under the cabinet. I put my thumb on it, and the deed was done. Good thing I have more strength in my thumb than in a baby squirrel’s whole body. #crossfit #functionalfitness
I tucked him firmly back in the box with the towels but left his manger on the floor in case he decided to go on walkabout again.
Just then, my phone rang. It was the rehab guy! He said he could meet me that night, or my friend could pick the squirrel up in the morning and deliver it to him. I told him I was in his debt so whichever made his life easier. He said, “Well… I just got home from teaching a class… and I’ve got these possums to feed. Let’s do it tomorrow.”
My friend stopped by bright and early the next day, and I said goodbye to my little buddy.
And then I was sad because it occurred to me that it would be fun to train him to ride around on Redford’s neck.
I bet my mom could’ve sewn him a tiny jockey’s uniform too.
I’m keeping my eye on the pin oak for any siblings.
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.
Aaaaaaand now I’ll be closing myself in my house and communicating with you people only via USPS. Send your addresses.
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 forgottenthe 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.
Saturday was my friend Craig’s birthday. He and I are both grown-up fat kids, so naturally, celebrating meant eating all the processed carbohydrates we could get our hands on that day. The topic of pre-CrossFit pictures arose at brunch. He showed us a photo of himself at 280, two eighty, and I said, “Craig… where are your ears?” He said, “My cheeks are hiding them.”
People have told me I look different from when I started CrossFit, but honest to god, I usually don’t feel that way. However, I did think of this one photo of myself in which I was pretty sure I looked different, so I pulled it up at brunch, and today I’ma show it to you, internet. Now, let’s all just agree to ignore whatever is happening with my hair, OK? I was going for bangs, but I have a cowlick, and also I go to the Aveda school for haircuts because it’s cheap, and I don’t know, OK?! I don’t know. Drop it already.
Also this was pre-makeup tutorial, so all I knew how to do was mascara and lipstick (of a questionable hue).
If you can direct your attention to anything other than my hair or the giant… zit? mosquito bite? cowpock? on my upper arm, you’ll see what I looked like at my brother’s graduation from law school in May of 2009.
I mean, let’s be generous: the photo is taken at the absolute least flattering angle, and I’m holding a baby, so my arm is squished up against my body… but there’s no denying that I’m a chunky monkey.
What did you say? You said you want more photos? Well, OK!
[And let me just stop right there and say that I’m 100% anti-fat-shaming. I think that people of all sizes and shapes can be beautiful and strong. Plus, fat-shamers do little except make the fat person hate herself, which (if she’s like me) will make her go eat more, resulting in more weight gain, and congratulations, assholes, on making the situation worse. So I’m not intending to fat-shame myself or anyone else with this post. (Nor should you. If you jack up my comments section with fat-shaming, I’m going to ask you politely to eat a dick.) Nope, I’m not going to fat-shame or body-bash. I’m going to illustrate something. I have a point to make. I’ll get there. Bear with me.]
Here I am in June of 2006 at my brother’s wedding:
Just barin’ my midriff, awkwardly, in November 2008:
A friend’s wedding in May 2010:
And now, because I love you and appreciate your readership, I’m going to give you a gift. This is not something I do lightly. This counts as the Embarrassing Photo of the Week for all of 2013, deal? It is with great contemplation and no small trepidation that I give you Fourth of July 2009:
LOOK AT BABY REDFORD OMG.
Sorry, I thought I’d try some misdirection. It probably worked for a second. He is so very cute.
OK, we can talk again about the unflattering angle and lack of makeup, but mm-hm, let’s all take a minute to observe exactly how hard my inner lesbian was punching a heavy bag inside me trying to come out. A lesbian friend looked at this picture on Saturday night and said, “When I’m in the act of having sex with women, I’m not as gay as you are in that picture.”
I swear I’m into dudes.
I digress.
So August 17, 2010, I start CrossFit, and I go four times a week, up to this very day. I lift, I jump, I run (ugh), I sit up, I push up, I pull up. I do my best to get harder, better, faster (sorta), stronger. Most definitely stronger.
Here I am this past Saturday, after the first Open WOD:
This is what CrossFit does to a person. Lays you out on the floor, until there’s a sweat angel on the mat underneath you. (photo credit: Rona @ CFD)
OK, granted it was after the makeup tutorial, and granted I’m wearing a slimming black wrap-around dress, and granted my boobs are buttressed like whoa, but I think even in my face you can see the difference.
In fact, here:
Different, right? You’re still looking at my boobs, aren’t you? It’s OK.
Let’s look at another example. This is me at the State Fair last October:
You can see, I’m still wide at the hips, the circumference of my arms is still considerable, and my middle is still kinda squishy, but there’s a difference between that and my pre-CrossFit days, right?
The fact is, until I get my eating issues under control, I’ll always be overweight—I know that.
But here’s the kicker, and you’re not going to believe me, but I swear to fucking god it’s true. You ready?
I haven’t lost weight since I started CrossFit.
The most I ever weighed in my life was 177 pounds, and when I got on the scale at the doctor’s office ten days ago, it said:
1… 7… 3.
That’s right. 173 pounds. A 4-lb weight loss in two and a half years.
So. My point. (I told you I had one!)
CrossFit will not necessarily make you lose weight. If your only concern is a number on a scale, this shit is not for you. CrossFit will not necessarily make you skinny. If skinny’s what you’re after, you’ve got to eat less. (And for some of us, that’s harder than for others.)
CrossFit will, however, change your girth. CrossFit will make you stronger. CrossFit will change your body composition. CrossFit will remove some of the fat and make you gain muscle and therefore make you feel (and yes, look) better.
Plus, it’s fun, and you make friends. Does this sound like a CrossFit commercial? Well, I guess it is. (Hey, CrossFit HQ, you want to make it rain for your girl, or?)
Maybe you can’t afford CrossFit. That’s legit. It’s expensive. All I’m saying is, if you want to look/feel better, consider diverting your focus from the scale; instead, lift a heavy thing, and run a little bit.
All I’m saying is, find some friends who’ll do something physically challenging with you four times a week.
All I’m saying is, there’s a community WOD at CrossFit Durham every Saturday. It’s free. Come on. I’ll go with you.
Costa Rica, last September:
This is what CrossFit does to a person.
(Makes you feel like you need to do handstands *everywhere*. You’re such an asshole. Nobody cares about your fucking handstand.)
Oh, and my friend Craig? These days he’s a Studly Dudley, and you can totally see his ears from the front.
Still not writing much, but my brain is chewing on a new FAYSHUN post. I’m going to buy a strapless bra at Target tomorrow, and then I’ll be ready to be there for sex. Not at Target. Just wherever I end up going in that outfit.
Also, I’ve got a good story about teaching that I’m itching to write, but that one will have to be password-protected.
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Three years ago, I didn’t write anything worth reading. :(
But some people say this post from two years ago is the funniest thing I’ve ever written, so.
A year ago, I was explaining myself. I’m kinda tired of doing that. Maybe I’ll stop and just let people think what they’re going to think. And maybe monkeys will fly out of my butt.
Happy Retrobruxist Friday, y’all.
(How are YOU? I feel like this relationship is one-sided.)
I’m a bloggy failure mess. I am not the boss of this blog. I can’t seem to write shit, and blah blah this has happened before, but never for this long.
It’s scary, to be honest.
I’m in a not-so-great place, to be honest.
Even things that had been going well are not going well. Wednesday, at the gym, my buddy Chad came by to give me a fist bump after the workout. “You crushed that WOD, Amy Scott,” he said.
I responded that I less “crushed it”, and more just “laid a hand on it and half-heartedly pushed down”… And actually, now that I thought about it, I less “pressed on it”, and more just “gave it the finger from a distance”. And it was true. I did pretty much two reps at a time of everything. I was tired and grumpy, and my plantar fasciitis was raging. My right heel felt like somebody’s heavy came after it with a baseball bat and my calf like it was one pace away from charley horsing.
When I said I was grumpy, Chad said, “Well, it was a grumpy WOD.” It was. It was a grumpy fucking WOD (20-minute AMRAP—what the shit?), but sometimes those are the best because you come off them feeling like you’re the boss of it. This one… It was the boss of me.
Also, yesterday as I was walking the dogs, I was reminded of that scene in the movie Parenthood when Steve Martin’s character wonders whether they should have the kid Mary Steenburgen’s character is pregnant with, and she says something like, “I’m not even sure we should keep the two we’ve got.” ‘Nita‘s adorable and I love her, but she’s a psycho around things with wheels, which makes our walks a teensy bit stressful. So what does my brain do? My brain tells me I shouldn’t even have dogs. My brain is the boss of me. The terrible, terrible boss of me.
Then my brain thinks this—no kidding, no edits—it thinks:
Everything’s overwhelming, and nothing’s good.
How’s that for some hyperbole? But, seriously, in that moment, it felt true. For all the above reasons.
Plus, and I’ve mentioned this before, I’m seriously considering single motherhood. To the point that I’ve done some legitimate research on the topic.
And it’s cool and exciting and scary and all that, but mostly it highlights the fact that all this would be physically, emotionally, financially, and in all other ways easier with a mate, and I cannot fucking find a mate to save my fucking life.
And now it feels like I’m throwing myself a pity party, and I hate that.
I’m not being the boss of me. And I hate that.
There. I wrote something. It was terrible. I hate that.
I already put my two cents in the comments on his page, but I present them here for you: one penny plus one penny plus maybe a few more haypennies, on the world’s most ridiculous list of “tips” for women’s strength training by über-glute, Bret Contreras. (He admits that “many aren’t really tips, just observations”. Uh duh.)
11. Women absolutely love it when they perform their first legitimate push-up and chin-up, and many love doing “masculine” things in the gym such as pushing sleds
Guess what else I absolutely love: everything that’s difficult that I work toward and then accomplish. So masculine! Gosh, between getting a Master’s, fostering pit bulls, and walking two marathons, it’s remarkable I haven’t grown a penis.
65. Some women make sexual-sounding grunts when lifting; men grunt but it doesn’t sound sexual
Here we have a classic case of Auditory Hallucinations for the Heterosexual-Heteronormative Male.
55. A small percentage of women possess what I call “Tasmanian devil syndrome,” characterized by a barrel chest with two chicken legs – this is the hardest body type to improve!
Because that body type is wrong—WRONG. If you’re apple-shaped, your genes are WRONG. And hard to improve! (Your body needs to be improved!)
64. Women don’t tend to care as much about science and research – anecdotes are often sufficient for evidence
and
18. Certain female sexual positions might contribute to women possessing good hip mobility and pelvic control (ex: ones that have the woman in a deep squat position, ones that have the woman in a bridge position, ones that have the woman rocking their hips back and forth, etc.)
LOL-ing at this juxtaposition. Studies upon studies, so much of the scientific evidence proving that Reverse Cowgirl helps my front squat.
But it is true that my vagina makes me hate research, so what do I know?
52. Where women store fat varies dramatically between women – typical problematic areas for fat storage are the inner thighs, buttocks, and back of the arms, however some struggle in the lower abdominal and lower back regions too
LOL-ing again. Absolutely no awareness—not even a synapse in the general direction—that “problematic areas for fat storage” is a social/cultural construct.
61. Women sometimes dress very sexy for the gym and are then annoyed when males show interest while they’re training, which on the surface doesn’t make the best of sense.
7. Many women have unhealthy attitudes about their body images
Couldn’t be because some bonehead said they look like a Tasmanian Devil, could it?
56. Most women have well-intentioned male friends who give them horrendous advice pertaining to their goals
No. NO. Like who? Who might do that?! I can’t think of anybody who, for example, would make a list of 120 “tips” for women’s strength training, many of which are misogynistic/moronic.
What complete and utter bullshit—except WAIT.
9. Some women have “coregasms” when training, and the hanging leg raise is the primary culprit (these orgasms usually aren’t welcomed as they’re inconvenient)
Um. Can this be taught? Two birds, you know?
(Unwelcome orgasm? That’s like an undelicious s’more.)
Hello, dear readers! So, there’s been a dearth of words lately. I don’t know… there’s a lot going on in my life and in my head, but it appears I’m incapable of pressing a bunch of keys in an order which would make those things interesting and/or entertaining enough to inflict on you.
Every time this happens, I automatically go to “Well, this whole bloggy blog thing was a good ride… too bad it’s over” because I think I’ll never ever be able to compose a post again. And that’s possible, I guess. Good(?) thing I have three years of archives!
My gay husband Paul, who will soon be opening CrossFit Surmount, and I competed in the Valentine’s Day Smackdowntwo years ago. (If you live near Gaypex [Paul says the G is silent], you should join his gym! Read my testimonial, which Paul edited for profane content, here.)
This post from a year ago just reminded me what a fantastic life decision NOT getting back on OKCupid is.
Earn more sessions by sleeving! I mean, Happy Retrobruxist Friday, y’all.
