I made my entrance to this bright world in a little hospital in Blowing Rock and grew up listening to Cove Creek gurgle by.
I rode Old Highway 421 to Boone to take ballet, tap, and jazz weekly at the Dancer’s Corner and made out with Robbie in his Volvo in Foscoe every chance I could get.
I attended the University of National Champions in Chapel Hill, camping out on the hard sidewalk outside the Dean Dome for basketball tickets, ordering Greek grilled cheese at Hector’s at 2:00am, and sweating my way through eight shows in the Lab! Theatre.
I flew away to Italy, Mexico, and New York Fuckin City, but I kept finding my way back to the Tar Heel State.
For five years, I taught fourth graders how to lose at tetherball on Seawell School Road, then wended my way out to my little mill house in Hillsborough and ran my dogs all over Occoneechee Mountain.
These days, I work out, go out, and tell stories in Bull City. I drive up Roxboro, down Mangum, and across Club Boulevard.
I’ve been to Asheville and Kure Beach and a lot of places in between, and I love. This. State.
I love North Carolina.
But today my state government voted to put hate on the ballot and bigotry on the map on May 8, 2012, and I just couldn’t be more ashamed.
I did Helen tonight. Don’t get too excited, my lesbians; that’s just the name of one of the CrossFit benchmark WODs. Helen is:
Three rounds of
run 400 meters
21 kettlebell swings (35 lbs for women)
12 pull-ups
Last time I did this WOD (December 3 of last year), I used a 20-lb kettlebell and green-plus-skinny-purple bands for the pull-ups. I finished in 14:30. Tonight, I was using a 30-lb kettlebell and the blue band. And it took me 14:42.
So it took me twelve seconds longer than it did nine months ago. Fantastic.
I mean, I know I was doing more work this time with the equipment change, but goddamn.
A few weeks ago after a workout, my buddy Jack said, “Good job, Scott.” And I said, “No. It was not. I have a Bad Attitude about my performance today.” And we laughed.
50-40-30-20-10 of box jumps (20″), double-unders, and sit-ups. (That is, you did 50 of all three exercises, then 40, etc.) Some CrossFit workouts are named, benchmark workouts, and all the benchmarks have girl names. Without the box jumps, this workout is known as “Annie”. With the box jumps, it’s known as “terrible”.
I can jump a 20″ box, but I usually do 17″ during WODs because it takes me forever if I don’t. Today was no exception.
The WOD began, and on my eleventh box jump, I felt a sproing-floobity-boop. I headed into the other room. Coach Paul said, “Amy! Where are you going?!” I said, “My sports bra came unhooked.” He said, “Come back! We don’t care!” But I knew what I had to do. There were double-unders coming up. I didn’t want anybody getting physically or emotionally hurt.
I managed to reattach the clasp, hurried back into the gym, and said a little prayer to the brassiere gods. Fortunately, there were no more boob mishaps.
At one point, Coach Paul started celebrating loudly the fact that Lindsay had done the double-unders in the round of 30 unbroken. My double-unders are still inconsistent at best. I’ve gotten 18 in a row, but sometimes it’s three. Or two. Or one. This time, I thought, “Goddammit. I’m going to do 30 double-unders unbroken.”
One thing I realized recently is that I simply wasn’t jumping high enough to get the rope around twice between bounces. So I concentrated on that, and the first ten went by easy. I kept going. Twenty down. Head up, jump high, keep the rhythm: 24, 25, 26, 27, 28—
Stupid double-unders.
I adjusted the rope, finished the last two, and started my sit-ups.
I had sort of been keeping pace with Lindsay (though she was jumping a 20″ box, thus doing a harder workout), but she smoked me on the last two rounds. Once again, I was doing my last round when every other soul in the gym was done.
And everybody cheered, as they do. And that’s so nice, of course. But it also makes me feel a little like a circus freak.
I finished in 28:05 and then sat there pretending to wipe sweat off my face but really crying into my T-shirt.
Today marks one year of my participation in the delightful masochism we like to call CrossFit. On August 17, 2010, I met Coach Dave at CrossFit Durham for my first Foundations session, and I’ve been back there two hundred eleven more times. That’s an average of exactly four times per week.
If you had asked me a year ago how long I would make it, I have no idea what I would’ve told you. But I’ll say now, I’ve never logged this kind of record at a gym. I belonged to one in Carrboro for a couple years, but if I made it to one or two aerobics classes a week, that was a lot.
This next part’ll be boring to everyone but me, but I’d like to get down my most recent numbers now, just to have it on record. All are one-rep maxes, unless otherwise noted.
3/21/11 Row 2k 10:38
4/1/11 Run 800 meters 4:57
4/8/11 Row 500 meters 2:06
4/8/11 Run 400 meters 2:04
4/9/11 Clean and jerk 100.5 lbs
5/2/11 Front squat 115 lbs
5/23/11 Overhead squat 75.5 lbs (x3)
5/27/11 Push press 90.5 lbs
6/16/11 Bench press 95 lbs
7/8/11 Snatch 68 lbs
7/20/11 Press 75 lbs
8/?/11 Kipped a red-band pull-up
8/5/11 Back squat 155 lbs
8/8/11 Deadlift 213 lbs
8/9/11 Push jerk 102.5 lbs
8/12/11 46 dead-hang blue-band pull-ups in 20 minutes
8/17/11 18 Double-unders in a row, during a WOD
These numbers are stupid. They’re stupid. I’m really not strong or fast (definitely not fast!) or good at anything, compared to the other people at the gym. But they’re my numbers, and they’re better than I did a year ago, so I’ll go ahead and be proud of them.
And I can’t see myself stopping any time soon. I love it. So there you go.
That being said, I looked at today’s WOD online this morning, and—get this—it was (1) Run 800 meters carrying a 12-lb medicine ball, (2) 100 20-in box jumps, and (3) run another 800 meters carrying a 12-lb medicine ball.
For my CrossFit-iversary, I gave myself the gift of not doing that fucking bullshit.
You may not know this about me, but I love dogs. I know! We all have our secrets.
Last weekend I had my two babies, plus Barley, their best friend who is sorta transgender AND Katie the Beagle Dog, who weighs about 15 pounds and has Cleopatra eyeliner. Barley had to go home, but for this weekend, I still have Katie the Beagle Dog AND Moby, a skinny, neurotic Shepherd mess who belongs to a former student of mine. He’s so sweet and crazy! I yub him!
My student and her mom and brother dropped Moby off this afternoon, and for about fifteen minutes, it was a cacophonous tumble of canine greetings. When the family left, I was pretty sure I could still make it to the gym by 5:00, so I quickly peeled off my work clothes. I had my workout pants and socks on when I heard a knock at the door. I figured Moby’s family had forgotten to give me his leash or something.
Now there are women in this world who can go braless. Alas, I am not one of them. It’s really unpleasant for all involved parties. But I thought, I’ll just sorta hide behind the door, and threw on the first thing I could get my hands on: a holey, old, too-tight, no-longer-totally-opaque T-shirt. I turned the locks and peeked around the door to find two Mormon missionaries smiling at me from the stoop.
I said, “I’m just running out to the gym,” but then one of them proffered a card, which I had to reach around the door to take. That was the moment Redford decided he needed a better look at his new friends so he bashed the door open with his body. I stood there in all my braless, partially see-through glory.
Those poor boys. I wonder if they reconsidered the whole “mission from God” thing at that point.
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.
My gym is different from your gym. Not to say that my gym is better.
Except that it’s better.
Ha ha. OK, fine. I’ll add one tiny prepositional phrase: it’s better for me.
I never thought I would look forward to going to a gym, but I do. I actually look forward to going to my gym. I’ve documented how much I love CrossFit here, here, here, and here. But there are myriad other reasons. For one thing, I love that they tell me what to do and I don’t have to think about it. I dig the fact that there are no mirrors—it’s never about how you look; it’s about what you can do. And I get all giddy about seeing the friends I’ve made there.
In some ways, though, my gym is just a gym. Dudes call each other pussies. “Sweet Cherry Pie” is on heavy rotation. There’s dropping of barbells and grunting.
And, I have to admit, I have surrendered to the siren call of dropping a bar with a bunch of bumper plates on it. First of all, often it’s absolutely necessary—you’re lifting an amount of weight that would be dangerous to lower to the ground. But more importantly, when you’ve just hit a new clean & jerk PR and you drop that heavy-ass barbell, it makes the most satisfying sound when it hits the floor. My friend Steve once wrote to a bunch of us about his emergency medicine internship. He told grisly tales of gunshot wounds to the head and shit, but the image that has stuck with me all these years later was of him and his cohorts standing in line in the cafeteria when a chorus of beepers sang out from their belts. All those white coats dropped their trays in unison and bolted for the ER.
Come on. That is some badass shit.
Dropping a heavy bar two feet in front of me is about the closest I’m ever gonna come to being that much of a BMF.
I always drew the line at grunting though. I mean, I make little runty-pig noises when I do push-ups and stuff, and when I’m trying to crack up my friend Erin, I’ll make this belabored “Eeeeeeeee!” sound
that she likens to the squirrel in Ice Age.
But never during lifts. No this-is-Sparta crap at the top of a front squat.
Well…
See, the WOD today involved a bunch of front squats, wall ball shots (pitching a medicine ball 9′ up a wall with a full squat at the bottom), and kettlebell swings.
One could argue that I sometimes go too light on WOD weights. It’s not that I’m afraid I’ll be last. I’m always last. I’m used to that. It’s that I’m afraid I’ll be so far last that people’s children will be at home sobbing from hunger pangs. Or worse, I’ll have a DNF. I’ve hated a lot of WODs; I’ve cursed a blue streak; I even kinda puked in my mouth once. But I’ve never logged a Did Not Finish.
So sue me, I go a little light on the weight, just to be sure.
Tonight, I was supposed to front squat 75% of my bodyweight. Ha! That’s, like, 130 pounds. My one-rep max is 115. I went for just under 75% of that: 83 pounds.
It was hard. It was so hard. The workout was a 21-15-9, which meant that you did 21 of each movement, followed by 15, then 9. I was breaking up the first round of front squats into 4 to 5 reps at a time. When I came up on about the twelfth rep, my lungs and throat emitted this great “Uhh!”…and I realized why people grunt.
It feels good.
It makes the lift easier too.
But mostly it makes you feel like a mythical beast.
I probably sounded like the squirrel from Ice Age, but I felt like a dragon. Rarrrr!
Last week, you may remember, Coach Ashley gave us the difficult assignment of coming up with ten things we liked about our bodies. I came up with five:
1. Nice eyes.
2. Rhythm.
3. Coordination.
4. Freckled shoulders.
5. Strong back.
That’s where I ran out of ideas. But I’ve thought more about it, and I’m taking a mulligan.
6. I’m shaped like an hourglass. (Must…resist…urge…to add…disclaimer.)
9. I can mimic most accents. (It’s something my body can do! My brain and mouth are parts of my body.)
10. All right, all right. MY ASS. In a spirit of if-you-can’t-beat-’em-join-’em, I’m hereby giving up not liking my butt and choosing to like it. I did that with bananas and the guitar riff of “The Piña Colada Song”—I can do it with this.
Now! The funner part of the assignment! What do I like about my CrossFit laydeez’ bodies? Well!
And a voice that…actually, you hear that? That’s Colleen’s voice. You can hear it from anywhere.
Bea: I’m attacking pull-ups in July the way I did push-ups in June because I want to be able to do pull-ups like Bea. She’s a great, hulking beast in a teeny-tiny package.
Also, she’s a photographer with a GREAT EYE. I’m not a visual person myself, so I’m lucky if I actually get the subject of my photos in the frame. Her photos look like a magical magic person took them.
Melinda: This woman, before she started kung-fuing breast cancer, did the Metro Dash. That’s an event where you run, flip tires, climb up and over walls…!
And I love her giggle. So I say, “Goddammit!” a lot because it makes her giggle.
Also, she’s currently kung-fuing breast cancer, and looks awesome in a head-wrap. And she let me feel her falsies last night.
I mean, damn. Gorgeous face. Nice curves. Hot-for-teacher glasses.
Nelly: Woman is strong. She can pick up very, very heavy things.
She has perfectly imperfect teeth. (Seriously, I love them. She smiles and, I don’t know, it’s beautiful and unexpected.)
And she does an amazing donkey kick burpee.
Ashley: Every part of her is perfectly rounded and firm. Everything on her body looks on purpose. I want that.
I learned a lot from doing this assignment. (1) My body is a tool, a pretty awesome one. It gets me where I need to go and can do some cool stuff. (2) Sometimes I need an extension on my homework assignments. And (3) my CrossFit Laydeez are smokin’.
My buddy Jed and I were looking at the goals board at the gym back in May and noticed somebody had written 1,500 total push-ups as that month’s goal. I’m unclear on the details after that, kind of like that time I drank a bunch of wine and tequila sunrises in Sardinia and I may or may not have ended up singing karaoke and swimming in the pool in my underpants before absolutely wrecking the bathroom and lying in the shower, trying to remember the word for ambulance in Italian, but Jed said later that I had committed to doing 1,500 push-ups during the month of June.
I had started doing regular push-ups, no modifications, a month or two prior, so I thought, “All right. Why not?” Granted, I could do only about four or five that looked decent before they morphed into something akin to a really bad and slow break-dancing move, but whatever. Fifty a day. I’d get really good at them.
I averaged fifty a day for nine days before I started being really grumpy about it. My upper back and shoulders felt like I’d been in a really violent car wreck. That’s when Coach Phil was all, “Yeah, you’re supposed to rest, dumbass.” Actually, he was much nicer to me than that and even drew graphs to show that I was not doing myself any favors with my current regimen. But I realized he was right and called myself a dumbass. I took the day after that off, and—miracle of miracles!—my push-ups the following day were EASY.
So periodically, I’ve rested, once for two days in a row, and I’ve done up to 124 in a day. A lot of them still look ugly, I’m not gonna lie. And the only reason I’ve done them is because I made this ridiculous pact with Jed. (Thanks, Jed!)
But it’s June 28, and, people, I have 151 push-ups to reach 1,500. Now’s when you cheer me on.
