Prediction: Pain

Last night's class would prove to be exemplary of my progress.  Not in fitness, or strength, but in the ability to prepare myself for the inevitable degradation of my manhood.

I walked into the class and what immediately stood out to me was the fact there was a pregnant chick.  A really pregnant chick.  And an old dude who was as old as that broad was pregnant.  By far the oldest dude I'd seen. Two weeks ago I would have taken this as a sign that my (much faded) athletic glory of old and reasonable physical prowess would be amplified with the presence of these people.

I am not so foolish these days. All this meant was that my humiliation will be that much more substantial.

This feeling was confirmed when I looked to the board for the WOD (workout of the day) and saw only the words "grab a jumprope".

Shit. My nemesis.

HeMan was not fucking around tonight.  He had us immediately jogging around the gym warming up.  It was a full class, so running was crowded.  Like the Boston Marathon, except with old and pregnant people.

Working my stride and stretching my legs I was just getting into the rhythm when I was distracted by the thought of bloodying my arms in futile attempts to accomplish double-unders (how the hell one consistently damages the same part of his arm with a simple jumprope is a mystery to me) when my foot caught the edge of a mat and I rolled my lady-sized ankle at a right angle and screamed in pain.

Now the advantage of having lady-ankles is that this sort of thing happens often, and that in just a matter of minutes you're good as new.  However, I felt about as cool as a handjob on a honeymoon as I limped around trying to walk it off--injured in the warm-up jog.

Not wanting to be shamed before I can even get to the most shameful part of the class I toughed it out and hobbled along with the rest of the class.

HeMan described our second warm-up as "workout number 1".  I hated the sound of that almost as much as I hated the jumprope in my hands.  The workout was thus:

100 jumpropes
10 air jump squats
100 jump ropes
20 pushups
100 jumpropes
30 situps
100 jumpropes
15 burpees

During this time HeMan had the nerve to encourage us to "try one foot", "try to get as many double unders as you can".  Fucker I'm working on single-unders without injuring myself (again).  Meanwhile gramps is jumproping like a motherfucker.  Switching feet and crossing ropes.  I'm totally going to key his Buick and take his handicap spot next time.

By the time I was finished that this was described as "workout number 1", because if it was just the warm-up I just blew my wad before the WOD (I think that's a William Faulkner quote).  Unfortunately the WOD was much, much worse.  It consisted of one minute at each of these stations with 20 seconds of rest in between:

Overhead squats
Lunging squats while holding 25 pounds above your head
Kettleball swings
Pull-ups (aka rest time)
2 medicine ball slams followed by 2 pushups
Burpees with a lateral bar jump (meaning the sadistic fuckers put up a bar that you had to jump over sideways after each burpee)
2 squats with a medicine ball and then throw it as high as you can against the wall
Motherfucking box jumps
Ab mat situps

This was unfathomable brutality for a lazy man.  I thought for sure I'd be spending the next week in traction watching Bond movies.  Like the idiot I am, I laid down on my back in victorious fashion for finishing the brutality.

But HeMan wasn't done with us.  My victory flop was interrupted by the announcement that we were to do it again, this time for 45 second intervals with a 15 second rest.

I was appalled.

How could such things be expected of me?  I can't even do multiple pull-ups?

My silent protests went unheeded, and he started the clock for round two. Even though it was 15 fewer seconds, it was an infinite expansion in pain.  I was wheezing like the fat kid in P.E. and feeling oh-so sorry for myself.  By the time round two was over I hated HeMan with the heat of a thousand suns.

Make that 100 thousand, because that evil bastard made us do it again.  I'm not sure he caught my scowl as my face was distorted in anguish.  In protest, I didn't even pretend to pretend to do the pull-ups.  I just dangled there.  Take THAT bit of rebellion, you heartless dickhole.

At the end of round three I was prepared to leap on HeMan like a rabid badger if he tried to make me do one more thing.  Fortunately for him (me) he called an end to the torture.  I expected there to be an active labor taking place and/or the paramedics tending to Gramps' broken hip, but sure enough those two were smiling and laughing as though they didn't just experience a full-body pummeling. 

I spent the post-workout stretch groaning and contemplating HeMan's demise (SOMEbody might get some pizzas he didn't order.  I'm not very good at vengeance).  If I had the capacity for thoughts beyond my own misery I would have wondered what the hell I was doing to myself.  Luckily I didn't, as I have 5 sessions left and a pregnant chick to outperform.