Monday, June 22, 2015

Abs and Flabs

There's a reason that I look more



It might be related to my urge to cry and break for DQ when push-ups and runs are the torture de jour at my local "Box". (I think that's what actual fit people call crossfit gyms).

I said push-ups.

And running.

Coaches just let that roll off their tongue as though it were entirely doable.

Trust me when I tell you, they weren't in my phys ed class, circa 1984. Cruel Mrs Harem Pants and Slouchy Socks is still weeping over her wasted years trying to teach me a damn thing. She used to escort us down into the bowels of the high school to an underground track that smelled of spiders and mold and watch us run endless laps in semi-darkness while in the grip of nutrient deprived anorexia. (how could she know.) I hated her for her generous belly and stretchy pants and whip cracking attitude of domination. Standing there while I slowly killed myself on that soggy track.


For all her efforts, I never really executed a run worthy of the wind pant.

More of a...

And I can't do bloody push-ups to save my life. Sure, I modify by pushing off a bar several miles up from horizontal and still- I choke out twelve or four at a time.

Coach (who crushes rodents between her thighs on her lunch breaks) commands that we produce thirty push ups in proper form, and that each time the body insists on a rest longer than two seconds in duration, you've earned yourself another 400 meter run. In any case, we all start with a 400 meter run (and not towards home).

I want to quit. I want to talk and whine and cry about my huge tatas that hurt like the devil because my stupid 47 year old uterus still wants to play house and pretend to keep making babies and feeding them all from the bounty that is bosom. And that's just the North end. Further South, I fear that the entire Poise company will be inadequate for the floodgates of unending fluids that my body will squeeze out (an attempt to lighten its load? Throw something overboard?) I silently curse all male runners for not having a single precious clue. I refuse to make eye contact with anyone. They are all the enemy because they will all finish before me while I stumble about in my aching, dampened state.

First try- twelve lousy pushups. Second- thirteen. Which leaves me to run another 400 meters before the last five ruddy pushups.

And I don't even mean pushups.

I mean pushups for people who can't do pushups.


Did I mention that I pay for this?! I do, and I love it (mostly) and I always go back. However. That does NOT mean I'm not frightened and ugly.

That, folks.

And trust me when I say they forgot to mention the 2-3 bras, the protective products,and the suppressed tears.

But still-

There's way, way more to heading to the gym than perfect abs.

Way more.