Category: Liftin’ Heavy Objects Over Ma Head

CrossFit! CrossFit! CrossFit!

Ass-Clown

I was still effing sore from all the ridiculousness that was yesterday’s WOD when I walked in the gym tonight. Every pull-up felt like I was hoisting a corpse. Plus Coach Rich made us do box jumps and bear crawls for the group warm-up. I looked at him half-way through and panted, “Are you sure this isn’t the metcon?” (That’s metabolic conditioning for you non-CrossFitters.)

The strength segment was presses. That was fine. But jeez maneez, the second part was 3 rounds of:

Well, I snatched thirty-five pounds, which was twenty less than Rx, and HSPUs are, shall we say, a tad beyond my capabilities at this point. I put my knees on a box, derrière in the air, and do them like that.

And of course, the running. Bleah. Blech. Blechity-bleah. I’m so slow. So…

…

…slow.

I’m slow anyway, but I knew I’d be extra-specially so today since I was already plumb wore out.

The 200m turn-around spot is at the second oak tree up the hill from the gym, which sucks until you head back and then it’s not as sucky. Even I feel OK coming down that decline. I’m not speedy or anything, but I don’t feel like I need to drop to all-fours.

The only problem is when I do a late WOD, and it’s dark, and the street lights are on. It’s not that I’m scared or anything. It’s that there’s this low stone wall, see, and—OK, let me explain.

This is what my ass normally looks like from the side. (I may have done a little graphic lipo on my stomach and thighs here.)

Point is, I have major junk all up in my trunk. This is well documented.

But when I’m running down that hill in front of the gym, and the street lights are on, the way my shadow lands on the stone wall makes my butt look

like this.

The hot guy who stole my sister-wife, Kristen, away at the Valentine’s Day shindig was running behind me at one point (because he was that close to lapping me). And before the WOD, I noticed he wasn’t actually a hot guy. He was a ridiculous specimen of male beauty. Beardy and tatooey and muscly and blue-eyed.

Yikes. I did not want him to catch even the slightest glance of the carnival fun-house shadow of my posterior on that wall.

So I ran.

I ran like my legs were steel springs.

I ran as fahst as a leppid.

…Of course, I’m absolutely sure that Hot Man’s entire focus was on me, not himself, during the WOD. I’m pretty sure everybody’s focus was and is always on me. Because I am the center of the universe.

(I’m very self-absorbed sometimes, have you noticed?)

(But to be fair, my ass’s shadow does make it look like planets orbiting it would not be out of the question.)

A Competition, Physical in Nature

Well!

Yesterday I participated in my very first fitness competition. It’s true, I tumbled in some gymnastics meets until age 8 or 9. And the summer after fifth grade, the Brown Bros. Construction Company softball team went undefeated…until I went on vacation (buffs nails on shirt). I did my share of bump-set-spike on Cove Creek School’s seventh and eighth grade volleyball team. (Hahahaha! I did not spike anything! I’ve been a midget my whole life!) Summers, I sailed Lasers in some races.

But I’d never in my adult life competed in a physical pursuit. Against other adults, I should say. (For the last five years, I’ve been whooping some fourth-grade ass at the tetherball pole.)

So yesterday. Yesterday I participated in the Valentine’s Day Couples Throwdown at CrossFit Durham. You didn’t have to be paramours to participate, just mixed-sex pairs, so I sought out a partner. Paul, you remember Paul, already had a partner, but since he does six to eight times as much exercise as the rest of us, he decided he would take me on too and do each WOD in two different heats.

Big Love CFD was formed. My sister-wife Kristen, Paul, and I psyched each other up for the big shindig all week. As the event drew closer, I found myself developing quite the case of nerves. Fortunately, I received this email from Paul on Friday night:

By now you know how competitive I am. That being said, tomorrow is all about having fun! What’s “fun” you ask? Talking shit about our fellow CFers, cheering for the underdogs, and sweating up a storm. If we can accomplish this, the smackdown will be a success!

Whew. I could do all those things. I am an accomplished shit-talker, underdog-cheerer, and sweater.

I arrived and donned the heart-themed knee socks my sister-wife had brought for all of us. Kristen’s love is fickle, however, and when a hot guy showed up without a partner, she abandoned us without a backward glance. Paul and I were on our own.

The Throwdown consisted of two WODs. We all took a knee as Coach Dave explained the first one:

Partner 1: Eat 15 Hershey’s Kisses

Partner 2: Row 1000m

Both: 20 sit-ups (facing each other, touching hands in the middle)

Partner 1: Row 800m

Both: 20 sit-ups

Partner 2: Row 600m

Both: 20 sit-ups

Partner 1: Row 400m

Both: 20 sit-ups

Partner 2: Row 200m

Both: 20 sit-ups

Partner 2: Eat 10 Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups

Paul and I began to strategize. He said he despised peanut butter cups, and I don’t love them either, but the way the WOD was organized meant that Partner 2 (the peanut butter-cup eater) was going to row 600 meters more than Partner 1. We both knew that Paul was going to need to take one for the team and gag down those cups.

We were in the third heat, so we watched the other competitors. Paul kept pointing out what terrible form most of them had—Paul does not mince words—so I asked for coaching, and he gave it to me. The instructions were simple and straight-forward, and I knew I could do it.

The third heat began, and I ate the shit out of those Hershey’s Kisses. I finished way ahead of the other Partner 1s (all that binge-eating ages 17-30 finally paid off!), and Paul hopped onto the rowing machine. He is a speedy demon, that Paul. We ripped out our first set of sit-ups. Time for my first row. Paul was a GREAT coach, and it was hard, but I felt good. The next set of sit-ups was tough. Doing sit-ups while out of breath is way harder than doing them fresh. By the fourth set of sit-ups, I was grunting with each one and slowing us down. By the fifth, I was moaning. Whatever. We finished them.

Now, Paul could’ve done the rowing and the sit-ups thrice without a problem, but it’s a good thing Kristen flouted our covenant and he didn’t have to do the WOD again because eating those Reese’s cups nearly broke the man. That being said, he choked them down, and we finished sixth out of eighteen couples. What?! Sixth! Amazing.

The second WOD was a 10-minute AMRAP (as many reps as possible):

10 burpees

25m walking lunges

(turn around)

10 burpees

25m walking lunges

The kicker: it was a three-legged race. We had to do the burpees AND the walking lunges tethered together at the knee.

Let me be clear. I hate burpees like I hate racism. And to do them while tied to someone, particularly someone who is fit, oh mah gah!

We were in the second heat. During the first, I did my best to keep pace with Paul’s heckling of our opponents, but he’s got mad skillz, yo.

That was nothing compared to the WOD. We developed a burpee strategy: outside leg back, inside leg back, push-up, inside leg forward, outside leg forward, stand up. The band was cutting off the circulation in my leg, and we tried to move it to our ankles, but that threw off what little balance we had, so we moved it back up. During the last two sets of lunges, I had to tell Paul to stop several times, which he graciously did but got me back in the game almost immediately by saying, “OK, three, two, one.” And off we’d go. It suuuuuuuuuuuucked.

We completed three full sets plus ten more burpees, and placed seventh in the event.

Everybody shuffled inside, and when the points were tallied, Paul and I had come in seventh overall.

So hard.

So fun.

Watch out for us next year.

P.S. Here’s Paul’s version of the event.

As Prescribed

Today we did dead-lifts. I got a new Personal Record at 183 pounds. I might have been able to do more, but we ran out of time, and it was probably a good thing because my form was getting stanky.

The WOD was a ridiculous Amish endeavor. Not a barn-raising, but close. Two rounds, with two minutes rest in between, of

  • 50 left-handed sledgehammer swings (that’s where you bash the shit out of a tractor tire with a sledge)
  • 50-meter right-handed farmer walk (that’s where you just pick up a kettle bell [or a pail of milk, I guess] in one hand and walk with it by your side), Rx for women was a 52-pound kettle bell
  • 50-meter left-handed farmer walk
  • 50 right-handed sledgehammer swings

Rx, shmarrex. Fuck if I was carrying a 52-pound kettle bell. I usually ask Coach Dave how I should scale the weight for the WOD…and then subtract another 15% when he’s not looking. But Dave wasn’t around, so I picked up a 30-pounder and walked outside.

The sledgehammer swings were awkward as hell, especially with my left hand forward. You have to choke up on the hammer with one hand in order to pick it up but then when you’re swinging it down, your choked-up hand slides down to meet your other. I can’t even write about clearly, much less do it. The coach was all, “The point is NOT to let gravity bring the hammer down! Put some force behind it!” And I was all, “I’m a beginner!” But a few times I caught a rhythm. (As a matter of fact, if you were in downtown Durham this evening and heard a beautiful bell-buoy-like bonging song, that was us. You’re welcome.)

I was way behind the others after the first set of swings, and there were a bunch of kettle bells just sitting there. I didn’t know where I put mine, so I grabbed a pretty silver one and farmer-walked away with it. I picked up the same one for round 2.

The second heat of people started doing the WOD while I was finishing. (Which is actually good because, when there aren’t two heats, it’s usually just me, still doing labored box jumps or something, while everyone else has their car keys in hand but stands around yelling, “Go Amy!” until I’m done.) I finished today’s WOD in thirteen minutes and something, dead last as usual.

When I was done, I looked at the kettle bell I had carried more closely. Carved on the side, it said “24 kilograms”. “Hm,” I thought, “that’s about…let’s see…multiply by 2.2…carry the 1…that’s 52 pounds! Fifty-two pounds! That was Rx. I just did a workout of the day as prescribed.”

So you know what? Other people did it better and faster and prettier than I did. (Indeed, Sandy Gray Niceface was over there swinging the sledgehammer one-handed. He looked like a caveman. A very attractive caveman.)

But I got an Rx by my name on the board. Woot!

Dear Violet, Part 5

I want you to know some things.

I want you to know you have an appointment this morning at the NC State vet school. They’re going to take a look at your wonky knee, which Dr. Purcell thinks you’ve torn. I’m sorry you’ve had to limp around on it for so long, but this was the first appointment they had, and I didn’t think I could afford the orthopedic vet in private practice in Cary.

(I kind of hoped, between when I made the appointment a month ago and now, that it would work itself out like all the rest of your creakiness. But no, the limp has persisted. You won’t even jump up into the car. It’s a good thing I’ve been going to CrossFit so I can squat-clean you into the Outback when I need to.)

I want you to know that this injury is my fault. I saw you walking gingerly on that leg before Christmas. I should’ve kept you on the leash. But scampering up Swift’s hill is one of the great joys of your life, and watching you scamper, well, that’s one of the great joys of mine.

Most likely, the vet school folks are going to say you need surgery so, most likely, you’re going to have surgery. I know you’re not even four yet and Mom said they might not even put you fully under, so it’s highly unlikely that anything bad will happen to you.

But I want you to know I’m fucking terrified that you’re not going to wake up from the anesthesia or there will be a complication. What does that even mean, a complication? I guess a complication makes things more complicated, more difficult, and I can live with that, as long as it doesn’t make you dead.

I’m having a difficult time right now. Work is hard. There are great changes afoot in my life. You and Redford are the only thing that keep me sane sometimes. Your needs are so predictable, so simple: food, water, play-dates, walks, and belly-rubs. My needs are so complex: I need my students to be compliant but not robots. I need to feed my body but not too much. I need a mate, but I don’t know how to find him.

So you’re going to be fine. For me. There will be no complications. Because—and I really want you to know this—I love you so, so much.

Do you hear me, Violet? Don’t die today, OK?

Love,

Amy

No Such Thing as TMI, Part 2

I’m kind of a sweaty monster.

I always have been. When I get hot…which is often, because of the…you know, the extry insulation…because I’m a little bit of a chubster…

Anyhow, when I exercise or get nervous or even just experience a day in Durham between March 1 and December 1, beads of sweat pop out on my upper lip and my forehead develops a sheen and pretty soon I’ve got pit-stains the size of pancakes. Shortly thereafter I’m on the train to Stankonia.

I should say, I used to get pit-stains. And I used to visit Stankonia.

You see, I tried all the different underarm products:

The natural deodorants. What a crock. That shit deodorizes about as well as crossing your fingers and hoping you don't stink.
The ones so effective you could supposedly skip a day. Lies.
The ones that are strong enough for a man but made for a woman. Not for this woman, apparently.
The ones that are actually made for a man. But the cologne smell was so strong, I would find myself hearing Daddy Yankee songs and looking around for the guy following me*.

So about two years ago, I did some research. On the interwebz. Which is magical in its offerings. And I found

Klima. Works like a goddamn dream.

How does it work? Remember how that lady died in Goldfinger?

She asphyxiated from being painted gold.

That was baloney—you can’t die from asphyxiation if you can still get air in through your mouth and/or nose…where air usually goes—but you can block pores by painting the skin, or in my case, spraying a little ethyl alcohol cocktail on it.

The negative: (1) It’s one million dollars a bottle. (2) If you spray it on before your underarms are completely dry, it’ll itch like crazy. And (3) it, like many antiperspirants, is chock-full of aluminum, and I hear that when they autopsy Alzheimer’s patients’ brains, they’re just lousy with the stuff.

So basically I’m spraying Alzheimer’s directly into my armpits.

But, hey, no pit-stains! No stank!

*Just so we’re clear, I’m pro-Latino dudes. I nearly married one. But many of them really like their Old Spice**.

**Just so we’re clear, I’m also pro-Old Spice. I like a man who smells good. Just not bathed in it so that the inside of my nostrils feel all burny.

Paleo Schmaleo

A lot of people at CrossFit are into eating “paleo”—that is, no processed stuff, low-carb, etc. Indeed, a bunch of them periodically do this 30-day program called Whole30, which is super strict:

  • meat
  • vegetables
  • nuts & seeds
  • a little fruit
  • no dairy
  • no grains
  • no sugar
  • no alcohol
  • no legumes
  • no potatoes or other “nightshades”

Now, I get it. I mean, hunter-gatherers didn’t pluck their daily rations from the Cinnabon tree; they didn’t follow roaming herds of Auntie Anne’s Jumbo Pretzel Dogs. I also understand that humans are the only mammals that drink milk after infancy and the only mammals that drink the milk of another animal (rare exceptions excluded). And I’m clear that refined sugar is bad for you for many, many reasons.

But legumes? Really? I guess I just have a hard time believing that something that grows out of the ground could be that terrible for you.

Before you’re all, “Cocaine grows out of the ground!”, just stop. I’m not eating dehydrated garbanzo beans that are then re-hydrated and smashed into paste. Oh wait. That would be hummus, right? OK, well, they’re not mixed with kerosene and sulfuric acid and acetone and I’m not snorting them and, yes, I looked up cocaine processing. By the way, did you know that the Eloria Noyesi moth larva feeds exclusively on coca plants? You’re thinking what I’m thinking, right? That’s probably one productive fucking larva.

I digress.

One of the CrossFit coaches said that what she had assumed was arthritis her whole life disappeared when she did Whole30, and my joints are redonk, so I’ve been considering trying it.

Of course, it would be difficult for me considering my food issues. On the Whole30 website, they say, “Don’t you dare tell us this is hard. Giving up heroin is hard.” Clearly that statement was written by somebody who’d never experienced an eating disorder. Food is my heroin. So imagine you’re addicted to heroin and you want to quit, but you can’t go cold turkey because you have to shoot up at least three times a day to live. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you “trying to recover from a compulsive eating disorder”.

In addition, I might’ve mentioned that I can’t really cook. That would make the program difficult.

Plus there are some foods, which I consider healthy, that would be traumatic to give up.

Really just one food: peanut butter.

But the Whole30 people effuse, “You don’t need peanut butter! There’s an alternative. A delicious alternative. It’s called Sunbutter. It’s so delicious you’ll never want to go back to peanut butter.”

Lies.

That shit is nasty.

So until I learn to cook and find a real alternative to peanut butter, Whole30 schmole30.

I’m an “Athlete”

CrossFit Durham linked my blog to their website. They listed me under Athlete Blogs….hahahahahahakljakjahahahakljl;ahsh! (cough)

I am so not an athlete. Indeed, today I thought I was going to die during the last round of the WOD. Stupid box jumps. After every three or four jumps (and there were twenty in each round…along with ten wall balls and ten knees-to-elbows knees-to-somewhere-around-my-navel…five rounds! Great googly moogly!), I collapsed onto my knees with my face against the box. I finished in about twice the time everybody else took. Granted, I was having an asthma attack, but I still felt like a weakling.

When my sister and I were training to walk a marathon the first time, she bought us both Nike shirts that just had the swoosh and the word ATHLETE on them. We wore them ironically, of course, but we worried that others would think we sincerely imagined ourselves bad-asses. Wa said she kept meaning to take a Sharpie and put quotation marks around it.

That being said, remember my hissy fit (OK, hissy fitS) about people telling me I’ve lost weight? The hissy fits I had because, when they tell me that, I’ve never actually lost weight? Well, I guess I have because people keep saying it.

I don’t see it on the scale, but then again I don’t weigh myself much. I don’t feel it in my clothes, but with my ghetto ass, it takes a lot to feel a difference. I remember back that one time I did lose weight, people would chirp, “Ten pounds is a pants size!” I lost 25 pounds and barely went from a 16 to a 14. (For you dudes, that’s one pants size.)

Anywhoodle, I am definitely getting harder, better, faster, stronger.

But I’m not an athlete.

Signing off,

Amy the “Athlete”

Varna Chameleon

We create these caste systems in our heads, I think. At least I do.

I went to elementary school in a district with K-8s only, no middle schools or junior highs. At ninth grade, hundreds of kids from the eight schools spread throughout the county would funnel into Watauga High School in Boone.

The hierarchy of elementary schools was thus (based entirely on my perceptions and opinions):

  1. Hardin Park. It was right there in the middle of Boone. Full of Appalachian State faculty’s kids, townies. They didn’t have to drive ten miles to the mall.
  2. Valle Crucis. They must’ve put something in the water because they raised some OH MY GOD TOTALLY CUTE boys, particularly Antoine (swoon) who played on my brother’s soccer team, the Strikers (fanning self).
  3. Blowing Rock. Rich-people town. The kids who went to Blowing Rock would be getting cars for their sixteenth birthdays, and not an ’83 Subaru GL station wagon that was concave on both sides and cultivating a serious case of rust, and you’ll share that with your siblings, you’re welcome.
  4. Parkway.
  5. Green Valley. Parkway and Green Valley were interchangeable. They were on the other side of the county, and I didn’t know anything about them. But they had to be better than…
  6. Cove Creek. That’s where I went. Ten miles west of Boone in tobacco country. The only reason Cove Creek was above numbers 7 and 8 was because we had a dope-ass gym, left over from the days when our elementary was a high school.
  7. Mabel.
  8. Bethel. Again, Mabel and Bethel were interchangeable. Both considered Total Bumfuck.

So imagine my confusion when my brother went off to WHS and promptly asked Melany Johnson, who had gone to Hardin Park, to the Homecoming dance.

I was like, whoa. Can you—I mean, can you do that?

It didn’t matter that my siblings and I were faculty brats and my mom was a—gasp!—Unitarian Universalist, so we probably had way more in common with Hardin Parkers than with the kids at Cove Creek. It still blew my little mind.

Which was then rendered FUBAR when Melany Johnson said yes.

Let me insert that, looking back, the Cove Creek kids were awesome—except the ones who told us we were going to hell because we weren’t members of Brushy Fork Baptist, they sucked—and I’m still friends with some of them today. I’m just trying to illustrate the way I created this everybody-OK–nearly-everybody-is-better-than-me paradigm.

Well, I still do that. The one I had unconsciously developed about my gym is “I can’t talk to people who are fitter than me”. Which means…everybody. Because everybody’s fitter than me.

But my caste system keeps getting wrecked because people at my gym keep commenting, and emailing, and coming up to me and saying, “I read your blog, and oh my gosh, we have so much in common!”

I love it.