crossfit

Too Fat for Toes-to-Bar

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.

Retrobruxist Friday 2/1/13

I will admit, I am one of those people that says “Feb-roo-ary” and flinches an eensy bit when people say “Feb-you-ary”. I know that makes me an asshole because EVERYBODY says “Feb-you-ary”, just like everybody says “laying down” when they mean “lying down”.

[“Lay” requires a direct object. You can lay your keys down on the counter or lay your baby in a crib or even lay your body down, but when you head to the couch to take a nap, you’re actually going to lie down. Even more confusing, the past tense of “lie” is “lay”. (The past tense of “lay” is “laid”.) So you can say, “I lay down for a nap”, but that would mean you did it before right now. I KNOW. I’M AN ASSHOLE.]

I further know it’s only a matter of time before we reach the tipping point and the Grammar Mavens say, “Well, language evolves, and now ‘Feb-you-ary’ and ‘laying down’ are considered correct.” But that day has not yet come, so if you notice that I have a tiny facial tic this month, there you go.

You can blame my parents for the above (see my dad’s comment on this post from three years ago, which also explains why I use quotation marks the way I do).

Two years ago, I shared with you my magical pit-stank cure. Still using it. Still giving myself Alzheimer’s. But the ‘heimer’s hasn’t hit yet! Still sharp as a marble! Now where in the world did I lie my keys? I’m confused—I need to go lay down.

I “competed” in an Olympic weightlifting meet a year ago. I hit 79.2 lbs on the snatch and 107.8 on the clean & jerk. I’m proud to say that my clean & jerk is now 128 pounds, and I snatch 103. That’s right: I have a 103-lb snatch.

Happy Retrobruxist Friday, y’all.

¡Pura Vida!

You may recall that, back in September, I vacated Durham for a week in Costa Rica with my super-friend Shiv (a.k.a. my sister-wife). You’re most likely saying to yourself, “Well, that must’ve been pretty dope,” and if so, YOU ARE A GENIUS AND TOTALLY CORRECT.

Evidence:

We stayed at the base of a volcano for a coupla/three nights.

We went to a hot spring spa and sat in 100-degree waterfalls that came off that volcano.
There was a parrot named Estefanía who lived at/around our hotel, and

she would harass the workers until they gave her bananas

or “bañañas” as Shiv and I took to calling them for no good reason.

All breakfasts included fried plantains. All breakfasts everywhere should include fried plantains.
We ziplined over the jungle.

Waterfall — Seriously. Will you look at that.

Shiv Ziplining — Shiv=badass (She kept wanting to go upside-down and stuff, and the guides were like, “OK, crazy lady.”)

We went on a gorgeous hike.

Also,

We met a baby sloth named Cheu, and

Cheu's Itchy Armpit — He also slothfully scratched his armpit for a long time. It was adorable.

We had two fantastic beach days.

Here I’m doing the Handstand Everywhere You Go requisite for people who do CrossFit. (I’m both proud of and embarrassed by this photo because, hey, that’s a pretty good handstand but, Jesús, you could land planes on my thighs.)

(I know. I need to cut that shit out.)

My favorite picture of the trip: Shiv en la bahía.

The only obstacles we had to overcome, other than the torrential rains for the first few days, were the incorrigible scavenger animals. To wit, the raccoons and coatis:

But also one morning, a band of capuchin monkeys terrorized/delighted (tomato/tomahto) the restaurant where we had our breakfast. I had wondered why the waitstaff didn’t put boxes of sugar packets on the tables — you had to ask for them — but it’s because the capuchins are junkie-monkeys. They will run through the restaurant, snatch the sugar packets right off your table (sometimes the whole box), and

The funniest part was that if they happened in their caper to grab any packets of artificial sweetener, they would throw them on the ground. (“Pump that garbage in another monkey’s face,” said the capuchins.)

[Side note: I told my 10-year-old niece this story, and she wrote the following poem.

Monkeys Don’t Like Splenda

I was sitting in the restaurant, (I was on vacation,)
I was taking lots of pictures I would send to my relations.
I got a big white envelope; it didn’t say the sender,
All it said upon its face was; MONKEYS DON’T LIKE SPLENDA.

I sat eating bananas, pondering those words,
I was in Costa Rica, but it did seem quite absurd.
Maybe they were picky eaters, or didn’t like the food,
Either way, this or that, I thought it was just rude.

I asked the waitress, bout the note, the manager’s the sender,
Each table gets one, and it’s true, that MONKEYS DON’T LIKE SPLENDA.

Then a monkey raced down and grabbed the sugar packets,
Dumped the Splenda, dumped the box, and just made quite a racket.
I learned a quite good lesson; that healthy isn’t ALWAYS good,
Cause if monkeys don’t like Splenda, I don’t think that I should!

I’m not biased or anything, but I’m pretty sure my niece is a genius?

End side note.]

Shiv and I sat on the beach late in the afternoon of our last day. Pieces of the navy blue mountains across the bay, which itself turned slowly from aqua to slate, chipped off and floated skyward. A lone trawler chugged its way toward the open Pacific. The branches of the guayaba tree stirred above us, and every time we stood up to leave, the yaw-kish of the waves hitting the beach lulled us back to our chairs,

while the sun became an ever-tinier pink sliver and disappeared.

The common Costa Rican expression pura vida means a lot of things, including hello and goodbye. If you say it about a person, it means s/he’s good people. But it also translates loosely as “Life is good”.

Which, in Costa Rica, it certainly was.

Pura vida.

Retrobruxist Friday 11/2/12

Three years ago, I responded to the negging incident. Awwwww, I was such an online-dating newbie, with my adorable disappointment in dudes’ profiles and emails. Now I’m all jaded and cranky and resigned to spinsterhood.

Progress.

My battle with acne started decades back. I wrote about it two years ago. I do eat way less sugar nowadays, but I also use

My sister looked at the bottle recently and was like, “That bottle…”

And I said, “Looks like it’ll punch your zits in the face?”

“Yes, that’s it,” she said.

It does punch my zits in the face, for the most part. The dermatologist prescribed Retin-A too, and so far, when I apply only a pea-sized amount, rather than the circus peanut-sized amount I used to apply as a teen, it doesn’t seem to make my face

Raiders-of-the-Lost-Ark-Face-Melt-e1338280858850 — do this

in the sun.

I was just thinking about the genesis a year ago of the great martial art abdo-shindo because I seem to have given myself some abdo this week. There’s something sexy about sore abs. Makes you feel like they’re all hard and tight and ripply.

Sore abs are liars.

Speaking of which, I already gave you the Embarrassing Photo of the Week, but I’m nothing if not generous, so here you go:

Tough Mudder Mud Pit — Look at that six-pack.

Happy Retrobruxist Friday, y’all.

Retrobruxist Friday 10/26/12

Hey, guess what! I have some kind of ragey infection in my EYEBALL! The opthalmalogist took fancy pictures of my splotchy cornea yesterday. As an aside, amongst the things you never want to hear at a doctor’s office: “I think it’s really good you came in today.” Also: “I don’t think it’ll affect your vision.”

Anyway, I get to put steroid/antiobiotic drops in my eyes four times a day for ten days. As an aside, I’m pathologically incapable of landing a drop in my eye. My flinch response is like a thunderbolt. So, essentially, I spent $25 at CVS on cheek/eyebrow/mouth drops.

I didn’t ask my eye-guy if I should forego tomorrow’s Tough Mudder, Redux, because I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have liked his answer. As an aside, almost-certain death tomorrow, you guys!

Three years ago, a guy tried his hand at negging me. Suck it, guy.

Two years ago — miracle of miracles — I found a dude on eGoddamnHarmony that I actually liked. (Never blogged about it, but I did email him. He didn’t respond. <sniff>)

And a year ago, with just a few simple guidelines, I was riling up the segment of the CrossFit community that either (a) couldn’t read; (b) didn’t get my sense of humor; or (c) both.

Happy Retrobruxist Friday, y’all.

Retrobruxist Friday 9/7/12

Former boss/dear friend/reader/Avid Bruxist cheerleader Margo started her campaign three years ago. Actually, probably earlier than that, but she made it explicit then. I’M TRYING, MARGO. YOU KNOW I’M TRYING.

(And failing.)

Two years ago, CrossFit made me feel bad about myself. That’s interesting—it still does! (Running.) And it also makes me feel really proud of myself! (Olympic lifting.)

I'm Inspiring — I’m inspired by all these people.

One year ago, I missed an opportunity and was sad about it. There’s more to that story… and all I can say is phew. Sometiiiiiimes I thank God fer unanswered praaaaaaayers.

Happy Retrobruxist Friday, y’all.

The Foster Chronicles: Tulip, Week 22

Day 1

My arms are sore. The day prior, five friends and I flipped a giant tractor tire a mile. (It’s a workout created by my sister-wife. She dubs it “the enTIRE mile”.) Upshot is my forearms are Meredith Baxter Burny, and correcting Tulip on our walk is a chore. I decide that, instead of physical corrections, I’ll use mind control. I say, “Tulip!” real short and concentrate real hard on being the boss of her, and wonder of wonders, she drops back six inches letting the leash go slack.

I have to do a lot of mind control, probably about as often as I’d been doing tugs on her collar, but my forearms are saved.

Day 2

I spend most of the day crying. Emotional upheaval, probably not helped by the fact that I’m not sleeping enough. I’ve been walking the dogs between 9:00 and 10:00pm to beat the heat, but when I get home, I’m wound up and don’t go to bed until midnight. Tonight I skip the dog-walk so that I can get to bed at a reasonable hour. Lights out at 10:37pm.

My brain wakes me up at 4:15am. Stupid brain.

[My friend asks, “Aren’t you scared to walk that late at night?” Um, I’m walking 190 pounds of pit bull. Nope, not scared.]

Day 3

More mind control. I think it’s working. I have to choke up less on the leash when we go by the house with three big Rottweilers in the yard. At home, I look online at Rottweiler rescues. I need to stop; I have a problem.

Tulip has 120 Facebook friends. No adoption prospects.

Day 4

On our late night walk, the pack gets agitated. I look around to find a loose or stray dog (it’s too dark to see if it’s wearing tags) about 20 yards away. Redford lunges, and when he can’t get at the stray, he redirects on Violet and Tulip. Tulip snaps back. I’m able to separate the dogs and hustle away from the strange dog. People pooh-pooh pinch collars—they say they’re cruel or whatever—but those things are the only reason none of us has to go to the ER.

Day 5

I have scheduled a walk with the adoptive “father” (he’s only 22!) of Tucker, the boy dog that was confiscated with Tulip. In the pictures, Tucker and Tulip look alike, though he’s clearly mixed with something other than pit bull. It’s possible Tulip is his mom or sister. I’m hoping she remembers him and they have a grand ol’ time together.

We arrive at Duke’s east campus. Tucker walks up with his person. Tulip is excited. She tenses up. She sniffs at Tucker. He hesitates. She says not-nice things to him.

(sigh)

We walk anyway. It’s fine. But damn.

Day 6

I go on a tubing trip down the Dan River that lasts three hours longer than I expect. Tulip is in the crate for almost eleven hours. When I get home, she has jumped around in there and managed to slide it across the room, but she’s otherwise OK. I’m too tired to take the dogs for a walk.

Day 7

Tulip is CRAZY. Between the long stint in the crate and not being walked since Friday night, she has a lot of stored-up wiggles. She gets them out by running laps through the house and tossing her deer antler to herself and then chasing after it.

We go on an extra-long walk. I use a combination of physical corrections and mind control.

Tulip’s always real interested in whether I’m going to eat that.

The Foster Chronicles: Tulip, Week 23

A Clean & Jerk Parable

One of my bits when I hosted the Monti StorySLAM on Tuesday (oh yeah, I hosted the Monti StorySLAM again last week) was that Coach Dave kept harassing me about signing up for an Olympic weightlifting meet, and you could all go ahead and wipe that skeptical look off your faces because that didn’t mean this fatty would be trying out for the Olympics. It simply meant a competition of three attempts each at the two Olympic lifts: snatch and clean & jerk.

I hemmed and hawed and made excuses about not having lifting shoes. Then my birthday rolled around, and my family got me

Pendlay Do-wins with Lollipop Laces — Pendlay Do-wins! Lollipop laces provided by my sister-wife. (Photo by Coach Dave.)

So then I dug my newly-clad heels in about the world’s least flattering garment, the singlet. (Just google ‘singlet’; focus on the athletic ones, not the sparkly ones you see at Pride parades.) Well, then this gym in Cary scheduled a “developmental meet”, which means yes on shoes, not necessarily on singlet.

I still hesitated, but Coach Dave, he’s a wily bastard, and he knows me. He said, “It’ll give you something to blog about.”

I guess some people, when they sign up for a competition, follow some sort of plan to prepare. I went strict on the Pretend It’s Not Happening program. Coach Dave watched some lifts, Coach Phil at CrossFit RTP helped me work on my snatch for an hour and a half [insert punch line] last week, and my buddy Liz gave me some pointers and wrote me out an extensive list of tips on yellow legal paper. Other than that, I just kept CrossFittin’ and whistlin’.

Meanwhile, my support team was rallying. My dad was thinking about driving down the mountain for the meet. My friends were conspiring about a banner. My sister was going to bring her kids. But on Thursday, when I realized I was starting to hyperventilate a little bit about the whole situation, I sent out the following email:

So, with going to Boone last weekend, the stray pit being put to sleep, the StorySLAM, and getting a foster dog, it’s just all too much. I’m still going to go and participate in the meet this weekend, but I’ve decided that no fucks shall be given by me that day. Therefore, I would not mind if you saved—nay, I would encourage you to save—your fucks for giving to some other event which might require given-fucks.

I adore you all,

ame

And that worked. I did not give a fuck. Until Saturday when I walked into the place. It was so quiet in there, and there were people in chairs watching, and the women in the first session (tall, skinny ones; itty-bitty ones; really fit ones) were putting up some big numbers on the board. Like, way more than I could. I mean, I knew calling what I was doing “competing” was fallacious, but I didn’t want to look like a charity case.

At that point, I got all weepy, and poor Coach Phil had to shush me and tell me it was gonna be OK.

The situation was bad. Earlier in the week, I would’ve been satisfied to hit a Personal Record at the meet. Now I had a new goal: not to shit myself on the platform.

I weighed in, 77.2 kg (170 lbs), and rolled around on a foam roll for a while. Coach Phil helped me warm up. My cheering squad did not heed my emailed advice.

Get it? teAMY… Team Amy, but combined. There are multiple advanced degrees in this picture.

Snatches first. There was one woman in my session whose three lifts were all smaller than my opener, so she went. Then I was up. I hit my opener at 33 kg (72.6 lbs) and my second lift at 36 kg (79.2), but I missed my third. I can’t even remember what it was…37? I got it overhead but crumpled underneath.

Several more women (all of them at least 20 pounds lighter than me) went, lifting enormous amounts of weight over their heads.

After that came the clean & jerk. I hit them all: 42 kg (92.4 lbs), 46 kg (101.2 lbs), and 49 kg (107.8 lbs). (Phil had wanted me to do 51 kg (112.2 lbs) because it would’ve been slightly above my PR, and I should’ve listened to him. Those clean & jerks didn’t feel very hard.) Most importantly, I did not shit myself.

Again, the real weightlifters came next and lifted some real weight.

The organizers totaled everything and called up the winners by weight class. As I was the only competitor in the Over 75 kg group,

Athletic Lab Open — I won first place in my weight class. (Photo by sister-wife.)

The lesson, children, is this: Sometimes it pays to be the fatty.

[Ed. note: I feel a follow-up post bubbling in my Broca’s area. But for now, to bed!, for I rise before daybreak.]