My 92-year-old great uncle just lost his license. Nothing had happened; there was no incident, thank god—it was just Time. Actually, it was Time a long time ago. Long about 2003, I rode shotgun on his grocery store run, and all I remember is feeling my heart beating in my neck and hanging onto the oh-shit handle so hard I gave myself calluses. Since then his cognitive abilities have deteriorated. Two days after he buried his dead cat in the back yard, he said, “Now where has that cat Oliver gotten to?” Moreover, he can’t hear or see a whole lot.
So my mom, who takes care of my uncle, consulted with his doctor and his lawyer, and they said, yep, get him evaluated. (By the way, did you know it costs over $300 to get an elderly person screened for driving? You’d think that society might want to bear that burden, seeing as not doing it could get somebody killed, but nope. Out of pocket.)
Of course the evaluation said to get him off the road.
Now he’s miserable and blaming my mom, which is totally unfair because she’s done nothing but cook him dinner, help him keep up the house and gardens, and play two games of cribbage with him every night for the last decade. Plus, she’s devastated for him too. She told me that, after she got the news, she cried straight through her voice lesson. And that’s normally the happiest hour of her week.
I get it, though—he’s pissed and scared. Pissed because even though his daily rounds included only the post office, the dump, and Stop & Shop, it was his routine. His life. And scared because when the DMV revokes your license, well, that’s sort of the beginning of the end, innit? What’s the timeframe between losing the right to drive and having to have somebody wipe your ass for you? Probably not that long.
Ugh. Old age, man. I have to remember that even though I’m feeling old, I’m not. I can drive to Kroger, and I remember putting Boonie in the ground, and I can wipe my own ass. Thank god for that.
I met a boy today—total cutie-pie; dark hair; stand-up comedian by trade except when he’s working on a small farm(!!); and at one point he said to me that he was sore because he’d done “this ballet barre workout” yesterday. Ha ha! How awesome is that?
When he mentioned he was 26, I was thinking, well, that’s not so bad—he’s only four years younger than me.
About two blissful seconds went by before I remembered that I’m not 30. I’m 30-six. Ten years older than cutie-pie. When I started college, he was in third grade.
And guess what, a friend of mine’s 30th birthday celebration is tonight. Yay for him. He could reasonably date cutie-pie, except that he’s straight and in a relationship.
Anyway, his party doesn’t start until 10:00pm. Listen, I can stay out until 10:00pm, but I don’t think I can go out at 10:00pm anymore.
Excuse me while I turn my hearing aid off and count the liver spots on my hands.
I didn’t vote today. Instead, I drove to Carrboro because I thought Oprah Winfrey might find me my soul mate. There’s a lot that’s stupid about that statement.
What happens is, I get an email from a friend mid-day that says the Oprah Winfrey Network is developing a dating show, and they’re accepting applications from 2:00 to 5:00 at this restaurant in Carrboro. I’ve been ruminating on the fact that I’m technically a spinster, and I don’t know, I’m thinking, “Nothing else has worked, so maybe I try a little reality television…?”
So I get there, and they hand me a 27-page form to fill out. Twenty-seven pages. And they tell me a producer will be putting together a little bit of footage. I start filling out the form, but the first page says “YOUR TOWN: CARRBORO” and asks for my address. And I’m thinking, my town is Bull City, y’all, so I shuffle over to the hostess and say, “Do I have to be a resident of Carrboro to do this?”
She says, “Hmm… I don’t know… Do you love Carrboro?”
And I go, “Sure.” But really I’m thinking, it’s aight. I mean, there’s some good restaurants and a gargantuan dog park I used to go to all the time when I worked in Chapel Hill, and it’s walkable. But it’s no Durham.
And as I keep filling out this tome, it becomes clear that this is just the audition for the town. Questions like, What makes your town unique? and Who is the town gossip? and Where do people go on dates in your town? The network wants to find a town in which to make love happen. They’ll accomplish this goal by shipping in various matchmakers and dispatching them amongst the participants.
The producer asks if I’m ready for my on-camera interview, and truth be told, at this point, I’m having some reservations about the whole deal. But I’d driven all the way over there and even applied mascara and lipstick on a Tuesday, in the middle of the afternoon, and OK, whatever.
What’s your type? I don’t really have a type, I say, but funny, smart, preferably stronger than me.
Have you tried online dating? Ahem. Yes. Yes I have.
What does love mean to you? It means fighting for each other and for the two of you as a couple. Platitudes platitudes.
What would you bring to a relationship? Blah stupid loyalty blah fun blah.
I drove away feeling perturbed and disappointed in myself and discouraged. So then I went to CrossFit and lifted heavy things over my head, and I felt better. PR on my push press: 110 pounds.
I, like many people who write, carry a small notebook to jot down ideas when they come to me. Two reasons, really: (1) An idea for a post will not stay with me for more than 30 seconds, even if it’s the most exciting thought I ever thunk, and (2) during Those Dry Times, I can sometimes flip through the pages and find something to blather on about.
If I don’t have my Moleskine® with me, I just scribble on a sticky note, a receipt, a gum wrapper… and my desk is littered with these little pieces of paper all the time. Here are some in front of me right now:
hands smelling like lavender after washing Baby E’s head
past tense of breathe should be broathe
Things I Don’t Like: (1) when people pronounce amphitheatre as if it has no h after the p
I worry that Boonie didn’t know how much I loved him.
“I don’t eat when I’m not hungry.” –Kate K. Jealous.
Horrifying thought of the day: A hundred years ago, I would’ve been considered a spinster. A SPINSTER. People get into relationships ALL THE TIME. What the hell is wrong with me?
Liane Hansen pronouncing “Ghostface Killah” in Mark Ronson interview—hahahaha
Most of these scribbles will never get written about. There’s just not enough there. But I really want there to be. I practically sprain my brain trying to weave these threads into something meaningful. One I keep looking longingly at is:
B: “Fly, you fools” (LOTR)
This is a reference to Christmas 2001 when my family saw The Lord of the Rings in a tiny theatre in Stowe, Vermont. At the moment when Gandalf was hanging from the precipice—the hobbits staring, petrified, powerless to stop his fall—my brother leaned over to my ear and said, “Fly, you fools!”one second before those words came out of the Grey Wizard’s mouth. And it was one of the most thrilling moments I’ve ever experienced. The combination of the emotional intensity of the scene and my brother’s precognition was too much.
I shouldn’t have been surprised, of course. My brother had read all the books a brazilian times; he knew every slash of a sword and every breath of a Ringwraith. (Now Dan Miller or somebody’s going to comment that Ringwraiths don’t breathe or something. Shut it, I don’t know anything about them because I didn’t read anything but Nancy Drew when I was little.) But it was so awesome. Just an awesome moment in my life.
So I’ve wanted to write about that moment for a long time; I just didn’t know what else to say about it.
On my very first day of CrossFit fourteen months ago, Coach Dave handed me a piece of paper and said, “Read this before you come back.” It was an article about rhabdomyolysis, which is a condition caused when damaged muscle cells break down and enter the bloodstream. Sometimes CrossFitters work out too hard, and then they barf and get all where-am-I? And the puking and confusion can happen during any WOD, but if you have major muscle soreness and swelling (not the good kind, like “Damn, son, you’re all swoll after those presses”, but more like “Yikes, you might wanna ice that”) and your piss looks like sweet tea, you may have rhabdo.
So Saturday the WOD had a whole mess o’ sit-ups, and then I did some major core work with a hula hoop at the CrossFit Durham Halloween party. Short story even shorter, I posted on Facebook that I thought I had rhabdo in my abdos. My tummy was so hurty! Coughing was uncomfortable. Worse, I had a cold, not a bad one but a particularly sneezy variety, and every time I achoo-ed on Monday, a single tear would slide down my cheek from the abdominal pain. Laughing was agony.
Fine, I didn’t actually have rhabdo. My pee, I’m sure you’re happy to hear, looked like Country Time lemonade. The thing about the tear, also a lie. But I did fake-cry and whine. A lot. And laughing really did hurt bad.
Monday’s WOD involved double-unders, box jumps, and kettlebell swings. I tried to protect my stomach muscles as much as possible. In fact, I was so concerned with my abs that I didn’t notice until partway through the workout that my shins felt like they were snapping in two. I know you’re supposed to land like a feather between double-unders and on the box, but alas, I’m a Fat CrossFitter, and I land about as light as locomotive. Every impact felt like my legs might break off mid-calf.
Last night at the gym, my buddy Jack asked, “How’s the abdo?”
I giggled—Ooo! Ow!—and then whined, “So bad! And I have shin splints too!”
“You have abdo and shindo,” he replied. I chortled. Ouch!
“That sounds like a martial art,” I said.
“You have a black belt in abdo shindo. You should list that under your Activities on Facebook,” he said.
And at that point, I laughed and laughed, and I’m pretty sure I really have rhabdo now.
Wow. Context. Context is everything, isn’t it? See, because if you know me, you knew that my “Guidelines for Dealing with Fat CrossFitters” post wasn’t about not wanting people to cheer for me during WODs; it wasn’t about other people at all—certainly not about guidelines for dealing with fat CrossFitters. It was about my ridiculous insecurities.
So, some of you are asking yourselves, why did she title it such? Why did she frame it that way? Well, here’s a rewrite of that post:
Times I Get Insecure at CrossFit
1. When I’m running because I’m slow.
2. When I’m last during WODs.
3. When pictures of me working out get posted online.
4. When people lie and say I look skinny.
There is absolutely nothing funny or provocative about that version. Many of you told me you found the first draft funny, and it was definitely provocative. How do I know?
Here's a normal traffic pattern to my blog.
I usually get about 80 visits on days that I post, 30 or so on days I don’t.
Here's the one from last week.
Yep. One thousand, five hundred eighty visits.
More than 1,400 of those visits were referred by the CrossFit mainsite, who linked to my post on Thursday. And hey, yay! Of course I want people to read my stuff. But really? It was posted with another link, one published by an actual CrossFit franchise, with the question:
“These are two blogposts with strong opinions… Do you take a strong stance in your posts? Or do you try to stay neutral and not risk offending members or potential members?”
OK, valid question for somebody running a CrossFit gym, but for my blog? What the hell do I care about staying neutral? And besides, what stance? I was not actually arguing that these are policies that CrossFit gyms should adopt. Even when I post about CrossFit, my blog is not about CrossFit; it’s about me. “Guidelines for Dealing with Fat CrossFitters” was not about CrossFit; it was about me.
Some of you are going, “Hmph!, that’s kind of narcissistic of you,” and you’re 100% right. (But if you’re one of those people who got offended or angered by the post, guess what: you made the post about you… Hmph!, that’s kind of narcissistic of you. Ha ha!) One of these days I’ll learn how to write about other things, but right now I’m, as they say, writing what I know.
Anyway, do I wish that no one could ever see me run? Yes, I do. But I know people cheer because they want to be supportive.
Am I embarrassed when three people are watching within a five-foot radius as I finish the WOD? Yes, I am. But I get that they believe they’re being motivational.
Do I hate it when people post photos on Facebook and it turns out I look less like Annie Sakamoto and more like
Jiminy Glick?
Sure. But I know how to cyber-scream at them until they delete the most embarrassing ones. (I did that to Coach Dave just the other day: “What the HELL, Dave? Do you WANT me to have low self-esteem?” And he’s a shweetie and took them down.)
Do I wish people would not comment on whatever their perception of my weight is? Mos def. But I get it; our society says it’s OK to do that.
Despite all that, do I love CrossFit, in particular my CrossFit and the athletes and coaches there? Damn right.
The most remarkable thing about this whole deal is how little my feelings have gotten hurt. Ninety-nine percent of the people who condemned the post and me, they don’t know me, so big deal. The only hurty spot was that one of my coaches fell into the condemnation category, but I just had to readjust my perception of our relationship. A person I’m very close to called me early in the week and the first thing she said was, “Whoa. [That coach] really doesn’t get you, does she?” And I had to admit, no, she didn’t. Not in this case. But that’s OK. She’s still an incredible coach and a totally fun gal to hang out with. She gets me other times. We’re still friends. It’s not all about people getting me. It’s not even about me.
Except on this blog, where it is.
It’s all about me.
[ADDENDUM: The coach’s totally valid points are (1) I don’t get her either because, while I see how someone might not like the post, I’m still confused about how a person could have been offended by it (we’re going to talk about it), and (2) when I tell stories about myself that involve other people—even when they’re not named—the blog becomes not just about me, but about them too. I didn’t think about it that way.]
First, I never said I don’t want to be cheered for. I get that that’s what some people are reading, but it ain’t what I wrote. Don’t believe me? Reread the post. I didn’t say it. In fact, I stated exactly how I wanted to be encouraged.
Second, please read all the other comments before you decide to add your two cents. Getting some repeat business up in there.
Third, if this is your first time to the blog, I suggest you not read this post in isolation. If you want to read about why I love CrossFit, read this, this, this, or this. If you want to get my sense of humor, read this. If you want to understand my particular brand of crazy, read this or this. If you want to know why I’m fat, even though I CrossFit, read this. If you want to read how my dog is an awesome (non-fat) CrossFitter, read this. If you want to read a story about farts (totally unrelated to CrossFit), read this.
In this segment of our broadcast, I like to answer questions asked by the audience. Also questions asked by no one, as is the case in this one. This particular post is dedicated to waiters/waitresses/ waitrons/servers/people-who’ll-be-taking-care-of-you-tonight and contains a few brief lessons on how to tip them.
Step 1: Tip them.
That’s right. We live in America. I don’t care if you’re from another country, or your mama raised you thrifty, or in your American subculture “we don’t tip”. Tip the damn waitress.
Maybe you think you don’t need to. Waiting tables is not that hard, right? Well, other than being personable, remembering orders, entering them into a computer, dealing with kitchen staff (which can be a challenge, cain’t it, Margo?), delivering food and drinks, making sure the customers’ needs are met, and being on their feet all night, you’re right. Nothing to it.
Step 2: Tip them 20%.
That’s right. We live in America. A standard tip is now 20%. If the service is truly shitty, talk to the manager. Otherwise, look at the total on your bill, shift the decimal one place to the left, and then double that amount.
Maybe you think you don’t need to. They get a paycheck after all. Yes. Guess how much the hourly wage for a server is in NC. Two dollars and thirteen cents an hour.
$2.13
Employers are allowed to do that because it’s assumed waitstaff will receive tips. (See Step #1.)
[If at your Sunday brunch you think, “It’s a buffet! They don’t have to do that much!”, remember they still have to be there, and they’re still getting paid $2.13 an hour.]
Step 3: Tip them cash.
I know, I know—we live in America. We like to pay with plastic. Pay the tip in cash.
Maybe you think you don’t need to. But sometimes, when the customers have been drunk and belligerent, and the kitchen has screwed up a couple orders, and the servers have had to bus and reset all their own tables the whole shift because the busboy got busted for having a pound of weed in his Tercel, that wad of cash is the only thing that’ll make them get out of bed and serve your ass again the next day.
There you go. You didn’t ask the Avid Bruxist, and I graciously answered.
[UPDATE: Read the post. Not the commentary in your head about the post. The actual post. Then read this. THEN, if you still feel like it, go ahead and comment. Some o’ yous are saying that I’m saying shit that I’m not actually saying.]
I am a fat CrossFitter. And I love it. Not the being fat. The CrossFitting. I love that I can clean and jerk 113 pounds and deadlift 213. I love that when I started, I was doing black-band (a.k.a. Johnny Jump-up) pull-ups, and now I use the blue. I love that I do nothing but bona fide push-ups. I love that I can hold a handstand against a wall for over a minute and a freestanding one for a couple seconds. I love CrossFit.
And I love you, my coaches and fellow athletes. Probably 94% of the reason I go is because I get to hang out with y’all.
But there’s some etiquette that I think is lacking in the community in general. It’s OK—don’t blame yourself—you didn’t know. I didn’t know not to drop an empty bar until somebody told me.
So here are some suggestions. And I think I speak for many fat CrossFitters.
1. RUNNING
See how I’m running half as fast as everybody else? Yeah, that’s actually my dead sprint. You’re thinking, “No…that can’t possibly…” Yep. It’s true. I’m pushing myself as hard as I possibly can.
Coaches, have some technical critique? Good. Say it. Keep it brief. Make it simple. And don’t give me more than one to think about. Just one. Remember, I’m about to die here.
Fellow athletes, think you need to cheer me on? If you really need to for you, go ahead. But if you don’t, that means I can pretend that nobody sees exactly how slow I am.
2. WODs
Notice how everybody’s finished with the WOD, and I still have an entire round left? At this point, in case you were wondering, I’m terribly, terribly embarrassed. As many times as this has happened, and it’s a lot, I still feel like hiding under a pile of ab-mats.
Do you feel like you need to run with me? Do kettlebell swings with me? Count for me? That’s so sweet. You don’t. Do you feel the urge to do solidarity burpees until I call time? That might accomplish the opposite of what you were intending. On top of my shame, you’ve just piled jealousy (fantastic—look how much fitter she is than I am) and/or guilt (oh shit, dude’s gonna have to do over two hundred burpees).
And imagine you decide to swing a kettlebell with me, the coach chooses that moment to watch and give pointers, and a third party is just staring and cheering. Three people studying my slow ass. That’s a good combo to make me spiral into a Cyclone of Despair.
Here’s what you do. You sit or stand far away. Across the gym. You pretend to talk to someone else. Once, just once, you look over and yell, “You got it, [fat CrossFitter]!” which makes you feel supportive and me watched, but not too much.
3. PHOTOS
Those photos you took of me working out? Restrain yourself from uploading them to Facebook. I’ll write my name and shitty time on the board. I’ll fess up to a measly 2-pound PR in the comments on your website. But despite all evidence to the contrary, I like to maintain a fantasy that I’m a badass when I work out. Your public photos show me how delusional I am and the internet exactly how many chins I have.
4. COMMENTS
Comment on my push press PR. Chat me up about my good back squat form. But please don’t tell me I’m looking skinny. We both know that’s a lie, so it just makes things awkward.
That’s it. Follow these guidelines, and fat CrossFitters everywhere will think you’re a sensitive, supportive, all-around-awesome person.
