Picture, if you will, a t-rex—you know, the gazillion-year-old creature with the little wimpy arms and the big ol’ butt. I like big butts, and I cannot lie… Wow, excuse me for that brief lapse into my rap fantasy world.
So t-rex. I sort of felt sorry for the animal after my weekend CrossFit class. Bear with me as I elaborate.
Our workout included something called a bear crawl. (Shoulder shrug, eye roll…whatEVER. Sounded pretty darn easy to me.)
It was not until I was preparing to get into the bear crawl position that I remembered, “Hey, I haven’t done anything like this since I was, like, three. Wonder if that’ll be a problem?”
Let me just say that, yep, big problem. I sort of felt like a tipped-forward t-rex. I was leaning on my shaking, wimpy arms as the momentum of my crater-sized arse was pushing me forward in a way that threatened to scrape my nose on the floor below me. It was kind of like what happens in rear-wheel-drive…you know, when the rear of the vehicle does all the work, and the front is left to meander aimlessly, being pushed willy-nilly wherever the rear might push it. Yeah, that.
My kids do the bear crawl all the time. And now I have to wonder, how the heck is it that they don’t pass out from sheer exhaustion at the end of each day?!? (I’m pretty sure it has to do with the fact that their desire to torture me far outweighs said exhaustion, but that has not yet been scientifically proven.)
So, after five rounds of down and back (the length of the gym) doing the bear crawl, my arms were shaking, sweat was dripping down my nose onto the floor, and I’m pretty sure I died a couple of times, too.
I would like to suggest to the workout inventors (you CrossFit people know who you are) that they refrain from using such cute-sounding names for exercises, as this leads the participants to believe they could actually complete the exercises without suffering some sort of brain hemorrhage. Instead, I would like to humbly suggest using names that are more descriptive of the actual activity. For example, I would rename the bear crawl as follows:
Arm Purgatory with Arse in Air
Shoulder Explosion with Optional Hamstring Hell
The Inferno (Because, you know, everything is on FIRE)
Now, while none of these names is perfect, they all do have one thing in common—the truth! OMG, when I see an exercise that is pretty much something my 3-year-olds do, I am going into it thinking that, yeah, it might be a little challenging, but I don’t think I’ll become a temporary paraplegic if I do it.
Wrong-O, buster. What I failed to recognize is that the amount of weight I am attempting to propel forward is exponentially higher than that being pushed by my toddlers. I’m pretty sure their little butts weigh about 10 pounds each, so that kind of weight behind you doesn’t tend to propel you to such out-of-control proportions as say, if your butt weighs approximately the same as a small car.
That being said, with my weight distributed forward onto my weakling arms, as my feet moved forward, I was more likely to do a sommersault than a bear crawl. But somehow I managed to complete this exercise designed by Satan himself to test the boundaries of my determination.
I did the stinkin’ bear crawl, dammit. And yeah, it looked sort of like a lame bear that had maybe gotten a thorn stuck in one of its rear paws as it lumbered forward toward a sparkling salmon stream. And maybe it also looked like a bear that was stricken with epilepsy or some other seizure disorder because, well, my muscles were reduced to the consistency of jell-o. But I did the damn bear crawl.
What’s next, CrossFit trainers?