Crossfit. Yup, that’s it. That’s why my butt hurts. To be specific, Carl is why my butt hurts, but to cut the guy a break, he’s sorta only doing what Crossfit tells him to do. Although, now that I think about it, I’m thinking they probably don’t push the
torturous rigorous posture that he does all the time, but anyway, you get the point. Crossfit makes my butt hurt. Period.
Here’s what I did this weekend. I went to a Crossfit meet. That was sort of like the teeny baby step right over the side of the cliff. I went in feeling…well, nauseous. In fact, the night before the meet, I was awakened by terror-filled dreams in which evil coaches screamed insults in my face and where fellow Crossfitters were dangling from pull-up bars with bloody stumps for hands (because, you know, there were a LOT of calluses, and those suckers can hurt—and bleed. Evidently.). Anyway, it was a scary dream. Way worse than all that Freddy Krueger stuff I heard about in high school. So by the time morning rolled around, I was sufficiently petrified and wondering what in the holy hell I had gotten myself into.
And let me tell you, my fears were not assuaged by the stream of uber-fit flesh that paraded into the gym early that morning either. I found myself praying—more than once—a little something like this. Please, God, let someone else who uses an inhaler walk into this gym so that I am not all alone—a wheezy mal-athletic (yeah, I made that up) in a sea of muscles and sweat. Oh yeah, and please let them have a bit of a gimpy leg or something so that I am not the absolute last one to finish anything. Amen.
I’m pretty sure that prayer alone will send me on a one-way path due south, but I’m hoping I can make up for it sometime in my life.
Let me set the scene. Lots of athletes milling about and talking. Coaches setting things up. Equipment covering the majority of the floor. And me, slowly inching my way toward the door. That was the scene. And then I saw a few familiar faces, and everyone lived happily ever after.
No, that’s not how it ended, because THAT would be a lame story. Instead, a few of us then sort of huddled together, feeling nauseous and pep-talking each other and chatting nervously in one big kumbaya circle.
And then it started. No time to think. No time to run for the hills or hide behind a stack of plates or pretend to faint or anything. It started and we cheered. We cheered for each other. We cheered for people who were working hard, for people who were trying to beat personal goals, for people who were just trying to finish. All at once, we were all in this thing together. And you know what? No one barfed. (Well, at least not that I am aware of.)
I was terrified. And I wanted to vomit. I wanted to run. I wanted someone to call me and tell me that my child had stuffed macaroni noodles up his nose and that I had to come immediately to his aid. Anything. Any. Thing. But I didn’t run.
Instead, here’s what I did this weekend. I did some front squats with a 45-lb. bar. Then I did some burpees and some 20” box steps. And then I did more squats, this time with a 40-lb. sand bag, and then I ran with the sand bag, and then I lifted it from the floor to my shoulder a few times and then ran some more. A whole bunch of all that stuff. Oh, and in the middle of all that, I also lifted 230 lbs. in a deadlift.
So, you know what? My butt may hurt, but the rest of me feels damn good. Well, ok, I should clarify. I don’t mean that the rest of my body feels good, because pretty much it all hurts and I feel like I’ve been run over by a truck. What I meant was that mushy soul stuff that ends up giving us lots of substance as human beings. That is what feels good. My butt still hurts.