Love You, M!

A month ago, my friend who is only 37 years old discovered that she had breast cancer. Last week, she tested positive for The Gene. The gene that’s like, “Ohai! Yeah, your def gonna get more cancer, probably in both boobs. And in your ovaries too, just for good measure, so you should go ahead and get all your lady bits removed now.” What a douchey gene.

Through all this ridiculous business, she has been a total badass.

So I made her a little something:

That's right.

I started with a design from Subversive Cross-Stitch and tweaked it to include woodland creatures AND, as my friend is a CrossFitter, the barbell and kettlebell. Then I found the gaudiest, goldest frame I could find, and voilà!

FUCK CANCER.

(It’s at the gym, M, whenever you’re ready to come WOD.)

 

More Power!

Last Tuesday, I looked on the CrossFit Durham website and found that the owner had scheduled a Painstorm. I’d list the elements here, but suffice to say it was Lift a Bunch of Shit Over Your Head Until You Can’t Anymore Then Do Fifteen Rounds of Some Other Crap Then Lift the Same Shit Over Your Head Again.

I decided to mow my lawn instead. Little did I know I’d have a Painstorm, mostly psychological, of my own.

See, for years, I owned

an electric mower, yes indeedy. (With a cord and everything. You learn to do a little dance with the cord. It's fancy.)

I had two of these mowers, actually. Kilt ’em. Kilt ’em both dead.

The reason I had gotten electric instead of gas-powered was I wanted to reduce my carbon footprint.

Lies.

In truth, I got electric because yanking on the cord of a mower that won’t start makes me want to put a foot through somebody’s ribcage.

But after I broke two electric mowers in five years, I decided I would really be ecologically conscious.

Lies again.

In truth, I was just being cheap. I bought

this yeoman's tool.

Every blade of grass gets cut using only human energy! Problem is, human energy is crap. I mean, it would cut, but not very much and certainly not anything high. I have a special mixture of grass and weeds in my yard that proved too much for the Silent Scott. I’d go over a tall weed—it would flatten out under the blade and pop right back up to full salute.

Every time he saw me out there grunting behind my “mower”, my 70-year-old neighbor insisted on lending me his self-propelled beast of a gas-powered machine. But I was terrified I’d hit a rock or a stump and mess up his blade, or worse.

So Tuesday, after work, I put on my Big Girl Panties, stopped by Home Depot, and picked up

my very first gas-powered mower.

The cheapest one they had, natch. It came mostly assembled. All I had to do was attach the handle and the rear wheels and add some oil. I’m handy. I had no problem with the mower.

I did, however, have a problem with

the stupid fucking gas can.

“Just turn, and click—you’re ready to go.”

Lies.

In truth, turn, and click, and nothing comes out. Turn the other way, and click, and still nothing. Turn really forcefully, and curse at it, and click, and nothing. I must’ve messed with that thing for half an hour. And it was starting to get dark. If there had been a ribcage around that didn’t belong to my dogs, my foot would’ve been through it. I finally poured the gas into a glass measuring cup and transferred it to the tank.

I mooshed the little rubber button to get the gas to flow in, held my breath, and yanked on the cord. Raaarrrrrrr! It started up on the first pull! But it was cutting REALLY SHORT. I realized I needed to change the level of the wheels. Because I’d bought the Piece of Shit model, there was no lever to change the height. I had to take off every last wheel and reattach them in a different hole. Argh.

First wheel, done. Second and third, done and done. Fourth…fourth…fourth. Won’t. Come. Off. I was using the only tool I had: plier/wire snip combo thingy. I knew my neighbor would have a wrench or something, but I was afraid it was too late to knock on his door.

Lies.

In truth, my pride was saying, “You don’t deserve those Big Girl Panties! Turn the fucking bolt!”

After 20 minutes, I told my pride to shove it and tromped over to my neighbor’s house. Sure, he had an adjustable wrench. Even better,

he had the most important tool humankind has ever created: the vice grip.

That bolt came loose like nothing.

I’d like to say that I adjusted the wheels and mowed and everything was wine and roses. Truth is, two of the wheels kept falling off as I mowed. I had to keep stopping to reattach them, and one of the washers got lost in the process. At this point, it was 8:45 or 9:00, dark. My neighbors probably thought I was on meth.

But that grass got mowed! Those weeds got chopped! And I missed remarkably few spots considering that it was dark as pitch when I finished.

So what did I learn and gain from my Painstorm?

Adaptabililty…gas can nozzle doesn’t work? Use something else.

Humility…I should’ve asked my neighbor about 30 minutes earlier for the wrench.

Economics…spend the extra twenty bucks to get the adjustable mower.

Physics…I need to buy a pair of vice grips.

Wisdom…that sage of sages, Tim Allen, was right: sometimes you need more power.

A Shot of Tequila and a High Five

I remember, after seeing the movie Amélie for the first time, having a conversation with someone, probably my mom, about how we should re-watch it every Sunday night before we had to go back to work on Monday. I know exactly jack shit about cinematography so I’m not sure how Jean-Pierre Jeunet rendered the colors that bright and the soundtrack that poignant and the characters that sublimely flawed and the story that enthralling and delightful. All I know is I walked out of the theater all teary and smiley, repeating “Bredoteau! Bretodeau!” in a distinctly Le Pewian accent to myself, wanting to go out and live life! Do good deeds! Find love!

Last night, I decided to watch The Road.

So the opposite.

I mean: enthralling story, yes. But Jesus. I wanted to crawl into my bed and pull the covers over my head. Which I did. But before I did, I checked Facebook one more time and saw the news of Osama’s bin Laden’s death.

Some people were rejoicing (“Bin Laden is DEAD!!! Rot in hell you dirty piece of shit!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”).  Some were sober (“No death is worth celebrating.”). Some questioned others’ Christianity (“Christians, we have been called to live a life that is pleasing to Jesus Christ. How does harboring so much hate glorify our Lord and Savior?”)

My first reaction was surprise—I never thought we’d get him—followed by relief, that this guy who orchestrated a movement that has killed thousands finally got his. And then I had a little Toby Keith moment, where I was like, “And at the hands of the Amurricans goddammit!” I shook that off but quickly realized this little operation would greatly increase Barack Obama’s chances of getting re-elected in 2012. So I posted something like: “Ten years. Obama ftw! Seriously, men and women of the U.S. Military and Commander-in-Chief Obama, I’m awed.”

Of course, what followed was quotes from MLK Jr.: “Returning hate for hate multiplies hate, adding deeper darkness to a night already devoid of stars. Darkness cannot drive out darkness: only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate: only love can do that.”

And videos from Ground Zero and DC, where people were straight up celebrating, and it reminded me of the footage from Muslim countries around the world, of crowds rejoicing as the Twin Towers collapsed. And I thought, “What are we doing?! We’re doing the same thing we found reprehensible!”

The horror of The Road, combined with the ambivalent feelings I had about the assassination, made for some pretty extraordinary bruxercising for me. I woke up this morning and felt like someone had punched me in the ear infection. That’s right. Like I had had an ear infection and then someone punched me in it. I ground my teeth so hard that my jaw’s still all tender on the left side.

I was grumpy all day. One of my students was doing everything in her power to be my Buddha, and my uterus started causing me my monthly strife. I ate too much. Carbopalooza. I got home to find Violet’s limp not any better than it was yesterday. The WOD kicked my ass. And not one of you, MY SO-CALLED FRIENDS, had told me that my nostril hair had gotten completely out of control.

Downtrodden.

But then my friend (the one I quoted at the beginning of this post) updated her status to: ok, y’all: i get and agree that the death of any human, yes even osama bin laden, is not to be taken lightly, and that his death marks the beginning of yet another period of uncertainty, but before we get all “spiritual” and “now, now kids…”, i think we as americans, and for fuck’s sake definitely our troops, deserve a shot of tequila and a high five. we can go back to being “the better person” tomorrow…

It wasn’t Amélie, but it sure made me feel better.

 

Why I Love CrossFit, Part 3

After the WOD, I sat in a pool of my own sweat on the rower, wheezing, when another CrossFitter came up and said, “Nice work.” I held out my closed hand, and we did a terrorist fist jab.

I hadn’t really done nice work. Not in the strictest sense. My push-ups were wormy, my kettle bell swings were grunty, and my rowing form would have made Paul hang his head in shame. Watching Ashley, or Anna, or Gabe, or Michael do the WOD—they do nice work. They don’t make it look easy (if the WOD looks easy, you’re doing it wrong); they make it look fierce, and beautiful.

But I did the WOD. I finished. And that, for some of us, is nice work.

The fact that people who lift heavier weights, who don’t use bands, who do things in half the time I do (as did one guy recently, running the 400 meters) stand there and cheer me on, makes me feel like I’m doing nice work.

Why I love CrossFit: People know you’re doing your damnedest and they acknowledge it.