We had a new trainer tonight. She looked kind of like an angry independent bookstore owner and, like many angry independent bookstore owners, that broad is MEAN.
Our first order of business was to run around the gym doing butt-kicks and then rotating air squats. When she told us that we'd be running a 200 meter outside in the 30 degree weather I was a bit surprised, but I kept my mouth shut. Good thing too, because some dude voiced a complaint and she immediately snapped that he'd have to do it twice and assured him she's not joking.
From that point we were perfectly aware who was in charge.
After a few very silent warmup laps with various stretching we were ready to get to our WOD (that's Workout of the Day to the uninitiated. I like throwing fitness-nerd vernacular in there every now and again. Makes me feel accepted).
Or were we?
I had scoped the board when we came in, and it consisted of low repetitions of exercises I had never heard of, interspersed with rounds of 100 jumpropes. The focus was apparently the snatch (giggity) as the clever title of tonight's workout was "Snatch". As I found out that was the SECOND warmup. I could tell other people were surprised too, but damned if they were going to make a peep. The second warmup was 3 rounds of thus (and I guarantee I'm going to screw some names up badly):
5 overhead press
5 behind the back squats
5 things where you squat and press at the same time
100 jump ropes
5 hang shoulder shrugs
5 hang pull ups
5 hang power snatch
100 jump ropes
We were given the choice to do this with either just the bar or a PVC pipe. I think we know what choice I made.
However, by the second set I actually felt that I might be pussing out TOO hard. This is a novel feeling for me, and I wasn't quite sure how to process it. Just as I was working this perplexity a familiar tune came over the speakers
"Y'all goin' make me lose my mind. Up in here. Up in here. . . "
Hail be to DMX, for he hath spoken. I tossed aside my puss pipe and grabbed the bar with a triumphant roar. Finishing the rest of the
The Rx (that NerdFitness talk for prescribed weight. Or, as I like to call it, random digits that I completely ignore) for this was 95 pounds for dudes and 65 pounds for chicks. It was a full class, so I had to run over a few ladies to get my 10 pounders before they were gone. If a pregnant old lady had been in my path, she would have gotten the forearm-shiver. I'm sorry you only weigh 60 pounds, lady, but I have a grossly ill-conceived image to uphold.
After leaving a trail of broken bodies in my wake, I set up my weights and was ready to begin. Angry Book Store Lady started the clock and we begun. I hoisted my weight pretty easily for the first 5 and went after the double-unders.
FUCK double-unders.
I was flailing away, whipping myself with the rope, trying get two turns underneath me and about flopping into the brick wall. I looked up and 3 minutes had passed and I had managed only about a dozen legitimate double-unders and a healthy series of whip-marks on my arm.
My earlier triumphant roar was replaced with very audible cursing. I gave up after countless failed attempts and went back after the hang clean snatches-or whatever.
For once, my insistence on being a puss worked against me, as I finished my 5 reps and I was again face to face with my nemesis: that god-damned children's toy. I literally felt like I was half of a Siamese twin attempting this stuff. I'm sure I looked about as coordinated. I didn't even pretend to count. I just whipped that rope around in futile attempts to get a rhythm until I either got too frustrated, my arms got too tired, or I caught someone glancing at my ineptitude. Then it was back to the bar.
The workout actually went pretty quickly, as I spent a good majority of it swearing at an inanimate object. Angry Book Store Lady announced that we didn't have time for a finisher, which helped squelch the rage within me, but she sure did take her sweet-ass time on our post workout stretches. Angry, hot, and nearly bleeding I bolted out of the gym before she could finish explaining how she is going to kick our ass tomorrow. She couldn't do a better job than that god damned jump rope.
It occurred to me that being halfway through my 12 session trial I should probably be measuring some kind of results beyond whether the weight I'm using is girly, or EXTRA-girly. So, for the first time I can remember, I stepped on a scale outside of a doctor's office. Apparently I weigh 205 pounds. At six-feet tall that makes my Body Mass Index (which everyone knows is bullshit) at 27.8. Squarely overweight by the bullshit standards. I'm not sure what kind of results to expect over the next 6 sessions, or the hypothetical sessions beyond, but I DO feel better. This is possibly because I'm no longer agonizingly sore every minute of every day as I was the first week. However, I'm also beginning to feel that mythical feeling you hear turbo fitness geeks describe where they think about becoming better at exercising and actually crave working out. I'm not about to go confirming the existence of the phenomenon, all I'm saying is that I'm beginning to see exercise less as an insufferable pain in the ass, and more of a sufferable pain in the ass. Progress?
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