So I was inspired by my friend Jordan and his ridiculous tattoo to go try out this CrossFit thing. I found a GroupOn for $39 that gave me 12 sessions. Seeing as how I’m a definitive model for the pinnacle of manhood, I figured I could conquer it with the relative ease that I conquered that chick at the bacon-eating contest (I refuse to accept the official results that claim otherwise).
Not being a total fool, I elected to begin with the “ramp-up” session for noobs. I showed up at 11 am on Saturday, pleased to find myself surrounded by plump, confused-looking chicks and the obligatory douche with those stupid shoes with the individual toes. I was the Lee Fucking Haney of this group. My confidence grew when I discovered that our instructor was a bit on the festively plump side herself.
We started off with a quick jog of 400 meters.
“Bitch you best recognize I can run like the wind blows”.
I showed those bitches my stride and my rockin’ glutes as dashed past them, humming a little Survivor for their pleasure.
“Winner takes it all. Loser takes the fall… . “
After that we did some old-lady stretches and Chubbers was showing us the proper squat techniques. Clearly she doesn’t realize she’s looking at the squat-fucking-master. I’ve squatted all over this earth and left receipts in the road to prove it.
We used PVC pipes instead of real weights because this is the Short Bus class. I dipped low, showcasing my perfect form. Letting the ladies breathe in my intoxicating pheromones. I wouldn’t be surprised if one or two of them were inadvertently impregnated by this experience.
She then showed us the snatch. She reminded us to focus on the snatch. Stressed the importance of the snatch. That woman would NOT quit saying “snatch”. So naturally I could not quit giggling.
After spending most of the class taking instructions it was time for the workout, which consisted of 7 minutes cycling between 5 squats (with weights this time) 5 burpies and running 100 meters. I showed those fools how shit gets DONE up in Northwest Iowa (circa 1995).
After powering through that we were gathered for our cooldown, which consisted mostly of situps, We stretched, and then we were done. I was kind of sore the next day but nothing I couldn’t handle. Of course I may have taken some liberties when relaying the story of my initial experience to those who asked. I may as well have been Lance Armstrong (as he was perceived 5 years ago) in terms of my fitness level to these people.
Mind you Monday I was completely unable to navigate stairs without whimpering like a little bitchpillow, but all-and-all I felt better today. The folks at the gym recommended I take 3 or 4 of these remedial retard classes before I go into the full-on CrossFit. Bitch, I’m a bus. I signed up for the 4:45pm Varsity level class today and was ready to remotely impregnate a few more ladies with my demonstrations of physical prowess.
I was pleased to find that when I arrived the class consisted of 2 dudes and 13 chicks that were crazy in shape. Like lining up at a Golden Corral buffet. I gave my stretching routine to establish myself as the dominant dude in the vicinity. I contemplated tearing my sleeves off, but the sun was not out, therefore by rule the guns should not be out.
The instructor tonight, I was to find out later, is an olympic qualifying power lifter. We ran a warmup 400, did some stretching, and he directed us to the PVC pipes again for more squat training.
“THIS is how Jordan earned that stupid boat tattoo?” I thought to myself, thinking that maybe I ought to one-up him with a tattoo of Sir Francis Drake’s entire armada once I cruise through a few of these sessions and my body is transformed to Greek God status.
He showed us a clean squat (they’re rarely clean, in my experience) where you lift the bar from the ground, up to your chest, then squat under it as you lift. Pretty simple. He showed us what’s up and told us to get 155 pounds. Fuck me and my math I couldn’t figure out 155 pounds. He saw me struggling to calculate the figures and directed to the bar he had set up with a look of skepticism not un-dickish. Now I’m still not claiming to be Stephen Hawking, but there were two 15-pounders on a 45 pound bar. That didn’t add up for me. Thank Tebow he identified my pussitude, I would later reflect.
Our exercise today was 7 lift-squats or whatever you call them and 14 kettleball lifts (above the head) and repeat that 5 times. We didn’t have these fancy “kettleballs” in the weightroom where I come from so I have no idea what the fuck I’m dealing with. I see the old dude next to me grabs a 40 pounder. He weighs about a buck-fifty, so I figure I can out-beast his ass and I grab one as well. He-Man demonstrates the kettle lifts, and starts the clock. The first 4 squats went well. That was about all that went well.
I had to rest between every squat after that, and when it came time for the kettleball I could barely lift that thing over my head. Meanwhile Gramps is throwing it around like it’s his newborn great-grandkid. I finally get my 14 done, and am beginning to surrender to the fact that I might not be the Beastmaster of this establishment. Meekly, I steal away to trade my 40 pound kettleball in for a 20 pounder and go back to my squats.
The gym is small, and pretty packed, so I’m working on my shit face-to-face with one of the fit girls. She’s powering through those squats like an East German Olympian, meanwhile I’m sweating like the Pope at a boy scout camp.
I’m having real trouble here, and my shame is compounded as I realize that I’ve only finished 4 sets and some of the hot chicks are putting their weights away.
Fuck.
I can’t go any faster. I may have been guilty of a calculation error or two in my favor and I MAY have skipped an entire set. That didn’t stop me from being absolutely dead last to finish. He Man had to have the chicks go run another 400 just so they wouldn’t have to stand around and wait for my wimpy ass.
After that humiliation it was time for the “Finisher”, for which we were instructed to grab a partner. Hoping to regain some of my swagger I grab the hottest chick with the hugest, fakest rack and claim her to be mine.
I am so dumb.
Our assignment was to do 150 situps between us. One does a set of 25 while the other “planks” on their elbows on a medicine ball. Hotness goes first with the situps and rocks those with no sweat. The planking is a little uncomfortable for me, but sitting still is right in my wheelhouse, so I conquer it with confidence. I even rock my first set of 25 situps out with relative ease.
Good glory to Tebow if I could not even begin to support myself for the second set of “planking”. Stupid, no-good Hotness is firing off condescending remarks of “encouragement” WHILE rocking her situps as I wallow about like a drunken walrus.
Of course, the point is to guilt the person to not slack on their situps because their partner is suffering through the plank during this time. That broad was a planking MACHINE through my second set of situps as I clicked them off at a 1 per 10 second ratio. That’ll teach you to encourage ME.
Yes, I snuck a peek down her sports bra when she wasn’t looking. Those things were glorious. Even at the height of suffering I refuse to abandon my smoooove.
I more-or-less rolled through my second set of situps, barely attempted my next planking round and spent most of it on my knees.
As was the case before, The time allotment expired before I could finish my final set of situps (damn it all!) and we went to stretching. Or, in my case, crying in the fetal position. I skulked out the back in shame as class was dismissed and limped to my car to pick up my son. Of course the first thing that kid wants is for me to pick him up, which I am now completely unable to do thanks to Jordan and his stupid-ass exercise routine. Next time you get a wise idea, how about you tell someone that DOESN’T subsist on bacon and Spam. Bastard. Now I HAVE to go back.
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