The Return of Scared Sh*tless

So, here we are.  I haven't updated this blog in years.  I survived my year of Scared Sh*tless, and all of the unexpected madness that came with it, and have led a relatively dull existence ever since.  (I say "relatively" because these "dull" few years have included two Spartan Race trifectas, a truly painful 25K trail race, countless hours of lifting and CrossFitting, and a semi-elopement lesbian wedding on top of a mountain.  So essentially, by "dull", I mean I haven't jumped out of any airplanes lately.)  I haven't been writing about any of it, and I doubt anyone particularly missed reading about it.  So, why am I returning to this long outdated piece of Internet obscurity?

Well, because I'm doing the scariest thing yet, and I just can't help but write about it.

Anyone who knows me is already aware of this (because I haven't shut up about it for the past 4 months or so), but it still feels weird and scary and epic to type it, or even think it, so I will give myself a literary drum roll here...

*drum roll*

...I'M RUNNING A MARATHON.

Yep, that's right.  This former fatty who hates running with a vehement passion signed up to run 26.2 miles.  Voluntarily.  Without anything chasing me. (Hopefully.)  Without a doubt my biggest and most daunting challenge yet.  So of course I had to write about it in this blog that started out as a virtual fear journal.

Why today?  Because the 2016 Portland Marathon takes place on October 9th... exactly one month from today.  I've been officially marathon training for four months now, and to say that it has been a transformative experience for me would be an understatement.  And while I do keep a "running journal" to record mileage and routes and simple training details, I somewhat regret not writing more in depth about the training process thus far.  So, I'm back in blogging action.  And I plan to use this blog as a way to record and remember the final month leading up to this epic challenge.  You can read about it if you want... or not.  This one's for me. :)

There are so many things that I want to write about in the upcoming days: highs and lows of training, the people who have helped me along the way (it really does take a village...), my attempts to balance my nutrition (spoiler alert: if you assume that marathon training is an automatic ticket to weight loss, think again, because I am hungry ALL. THE. TIME), the things I've learned and the way this process has changed me, and so much more.  But today, I'm going to start out by answering the one question I've heard most throughout this process:

WHY?!

I can't tell you how many times I've been asked, "Why are you running a marathon?"  There are many variations of this question, many containing multiple explatives.  My personal favorite: "You do realize that you have to run in order to run a marathon, right?"  Ha.  Clever.  But, also valid.  Because why would someone who loathes running almost as much as she loathes Donald Trump decide to run a marathon?  There are people out there who legitimately enjoy distance running.  I am not one of those people.  Some people are good at running and make it look effortless. I am not one of those people, either.  Running is hard for me.  I'm not good at it.  I'm not built for it.  I'm built to lift stuff.  I don't enjoy running, and I can't "zone out" or "find my happy place" as some runners can; all I can think about when I'm running is how unpleasant it is to be running.  I don't run fast, or gracefully, or in good form.  I don't even know if you can call it running... more of a plodding stumble.  Running is not something I love.  Or even like.

So... why commit to 26.2 miles of it?

The short answer:  I drank a bottle of red wine while home alone one cold January night and decided that it would be a good idea.  So I signed up for it.

(Side note: I really shouldn't have access to credit cards while intoxicated.  This might have been my most ill-advised drunken expenditure since the time in college when I bid on a blue electric scooter on eBay.  I didn't remember I'd done it until said scooter arrived at my apartment a week later.  It ended up being a really great investment... for approximately 20 minutes.  We decided to take it for a spin around Blacksburg during another alcohol-fueled night of awesome decision making and promptly drove it into a large pothole.  The scooter was never the same again.  Maybe the moral of this story should be a little less "Emily shouldn't have credit cards when she drinks" and a little more "Emily shouldn't be allowed to drink and make decisions, ever."  But I digress.)

I could blame the wine.  And some days, I do.  But truth be told, there was a lot of soul searching that went into the decision to run a marathon, and the vast majority of it was done sober.  The wine just gave me the courage to pull the trigger.  The big picture is a lot more complicated.

Let's go back to 2013... the year that started it all, including this blog.  It was the year that I decided I was going to stop being the person who let fear run her life, and instead was going to spend 12 months conquering those fears in the most intimidating ways possible.  When the journey began, I didn't think there was anything scarier than facing a Tough Mudder, or signing up for my first CrossFit competition, or running a half marathon.  Little did I know that the fears I would face that year would be so much bigger than all of those things combined.  2013 brought me heartbreak, divorce, and a lot of tough questions.  It put me at the center of some pretty vicious rumors and gossip, and subsequently caused me to reevaluate who I wanted in my life, and to lose quite a few friendships.  It broke down the entire picture of everything I'd always thought I was, and forced me to start all over again from scratch in discovering who I truly am.  2013 was the hardest and scariest year of my life.  But it was also one of the most beautiful.  Because by surviving all of those things, I learned that true love and true happiness are worth facing any fear.  And I managed to find both.

Fast forward... I have my happy ending.  I am newly and blissfully married to my soul mate, who has made my life better in every way imaginable, and who just makes me feel happy to be alive every single day.  I have two incredible kids in my life who have brought me a tremendous amount of joy, and who have taught me that life doesn't have to happen according to plan in order to be beautiful.  I have a difficult but rewarding career that, despite my bitching, I actually kind of love.  I have amazing friends who have proven that they will truly stand by my side through absolutely anything.  I have grown closer to my family over the past few years, and have discovered that in addition to loving my sisters in an obligatory way, I actually kind of even like them. :)  In short... I have everything I never knew I always wanted.  And it's glorious.

Alas, I can never make anything that simple.  As much as I LOVE this happy ending, a part of me started to miss having things to be scared of.  Truth be told, fear is my most powerful motivator.  And without a healthy dose of it in my life, I was starting to feel complacent.  Stagnant.  Restless.

The fact of the matter is, I am happiest and at my best when I'm facing a challenge.  The scarier, the better.  I truly believe that we were all put on this earth to pursue the things that set our souls on fire.  I already pursued Jeannie, and that went pretty well. :)  The other thing that sets my soul on fire is conquering challenges.  Facing the things I don't truly believe I'm capable of doing, and then proving myself wrong.  To me, there is nothing more amazing than knowing that we are limitless... that we can constantly reinvent ourselves, that we can accomplish anything we set out to achieve, and that we get to write our own stories.  "I am the captain of my fate, I am the master of my soul."  Or something.  I don't know.  I just know that few things in this world thrill me as much as setting a terrifying goal and seeing it through.

I spent the first 30 years of my life watching other peoples' achievements from a distance, while remaining safely cocooned in my own insecurities.  Considering where I started, I have to admit that I am proud of what I've accomplished in recent years.  I set a huge weight loss goal for myself, and I hit it.  I became a CrossFitter, and a half marathoner, and an OCR competitor.  I tried things that the "old me" only could have dreamed about, and surprised myself by loving most of them.  And the more something terrified or intimidated me, the better it felt when I conquered it. After three decades of never challenging myself for fear of failure, I suddenly couldn't get enough challenges.

In 2014, I completed my first Spartan trifecta, despite Wintergreen absolutely destroying me.  In 2015, I set out to repeat the trifecta and get my redemption at Wintergreen, and I did both of those things.  My original goal for 2016 was a Double Trifecta, but after Spartan almost doubled the price of their season passes coming into the 2016 season, that became financially impossible.  I didn't have anything to train for or work towards, and I was feeling rather lost.  I needed a new challenge.

Around the same time I was finishing up my trifecta and beginning to contemplate my next move, fall marathon season went into full swing.  I would see Facebook posts of people with their medals, people smiling at the camera while running past cheering crowds (WHO SMILES WHILE THEY ARE RUNNING?!?!), people at the finish line not looking like they were dying... and I was in awe of each and every one of them.  And my internal reaction to all of these runners was the same as it has always been: I could never do that.  I could never run 26.2 miles.  I am just not physically or mentally capable of doing it.  A marathon remained the one thing that I truly believed, honestly and wholeheartedly, that I simply could not do.  I've always felt this way.

Only this time, my gut reaction kind of pissed me off.

I have spent so much time in the past few years drilling into my own head and heart that I can accomplish anything if I want it badly enough.  So why was there not a single piece of my being that could even entertain the thought of being able to run a marathon?  Why was I SO very convinced that my body could not achieve such a goal?  I was frustrated with myself.  It began to hang over my head... this thing that seemed so impossibly out of reach.  I became silently obsessed with the thought of it.  And at some point, without even realizing it, my thought process started to change from "I could never do this," to "Why couldn't I?"... and, eventually, "Maybe?  Could I?"

One day shortly after Christmas, I got up the courage to confess this thought process to Jeannie, and to ask her opinion.  I half assumed she would laugh at me.  But, being Jeannie, she told me without hesitation that she thought I could do anything if I was willing to put in the work.  She was also honest, and pointed out that I would have to stick to a really difficult training plan (which is a terrible weakness of mine, as I am typically a "let's wing it and see how this shit will go" kind of gal), and that the mental challenge of taking on something like this would be incredibly difficult for me.  I knew she was right.  But the fact that she also believed I could do it gave me confidence.

A few days later, I texted my friend Kris, who is both an amazing and experienced runner and one of the kindest people I've ever met.  Not only could she give me an educated and honest assessment of the situation, but I trusted her and knew she would not laugh in my face.  I told her that I was having this crazy idea, and asked her just how impossible this "impossible dream" really was.  Her instant response: not impossible at all. She not only encouraged me to go for it, but also offered to be a sort of running mentor for me, and to come up with a training plan that would fit my ability and goals.  At that point, I still didn't even remotely believe that I could do it... but an increasingly large part of me really wanted to find out one way or another.

Fast forward a week.  I had a night off, an empty house, and a bottle of wine calling my name.  After one glass, I started absent-mindedly googling "flattest marathons in America."  After the second glass, I started considering which of those locations I wanted a good excuse to visit.  After the third glass, I was getting pretty excited about Portland craft beers.  And as I finished the bottle, I found myself in a moment of Cabernet-fueled clarity/insanity, got out my credit card, and signed myself up for the 2016 Portland Marathon.  Immediately after hitting "send" on my entry form, I felt giddy with excitement.  Take that, fear!  Suck it, doubt!  I'm going to run a damn MARATHON!

The next morning, however, I woke up with a slight hangover and an impending sense of doom as I remembered what I had committed myself to the night before.  As it turned out, without the warm liquid courage of wine coursing through my veins, I was no more confident in my ability to run 26.2 miles than in my ability to sprout wings and fly to Portland myself.  But, too late.  I'd already texted both Jeannie and Kris the night before declaring that I was going to run the Portland Marathon... not to mention paid a non-refundable entry fee.  Neither my pride nor my inner Jew were willing to back out.  So, with a deep sense of dread, I mentally committed myself, in that moment, to at least give it a try.  To follow Kris's training program as best I could and go from there.  I might not be able to run a marathon... but I at least had to try.

That was eight months ago.  During the course of those eight months, this pipe dream of mine has slowly taken over my life.  I started building a base by running as far as I could a few days a week.  At first, it was a mile.  Then two.  When the time came to start the official training program, I could handle 5 miles with walk breaks.  As I resigned myself to 20 weeks of structured hell, I was whole-heartedly convinced that I would never be able to reach the final goal.  The thought of running 15, 18, 20 miles just felt so dramatically incomprehensible that it was almost laughable.  But I threw myself into the training program anyways.  My first scheduled "long run" was 6 miles, and I hated every step of it.  But I kept going.  Kept doing the workouts exactly as written, no matter how much I had to walk or how long they took me.  I kept trying.

For the first two months, I felt like I wasn't making a damn bit of progress.  I was still walking more than I was running on my long runs, my interval workouts were impossibly hard, and every hill workout made me want to simultaneously cry and vomit.  Some days I did both.  But despite the lack of progress, a tiny part of me felt proud of myself.  I was sticking with it.  I wasn't giving up.  I was terrible at it, but I didn't quit.  And sometimes, that's all you can ask of yourself.

The longer my long runs became, the more convinced I was that I was chasing something impossible.  There was a moment during my first 15-miler, when I was puking up blue Power Aid on the side of the road in 96 degree heat during my third lap around North Park, that I actually decided I'd had enough.  I was done.  I was ready to wave the white flag... this was not going to happen.  All of my worst suspicions and fears were confirmed in that moment... I simply couldn't do it.  I limped back to my car with tears streaming down my face, walked circles around the parking lot until my GPS watch finally said I'd gone 15 miles, and drove home feeling like the world's biggest failure.

Thankfully, I had already scheduled breakfast the next day with my wonderful friend Laura.  Laura has played an enormous role in this whole process, and she will get her own blog post soon.  But for now, suffice it to say that she gave me the tough love I needed during that breakfast, and made me realize that giving up wasn't an option.  I'd come this far.  What did I gain if I gave up now?  What was the point of all of the hours, the miles, the sweat and the tears I'd already invested if I threw it all away now?  All wasted.  She told me to give it another week, and helped me to get my mind back on track.  I promised I'd give it another try.

And the following week, I had my first "good" long run ever.  It was only 11 miles, and it wasn't anywhere near where I needed to be to actually finish a marathon.  But I ran the whole thing without walk breaks, and I didn't puke OR cry, and I finished feeling strong and happy and just a tiny bit more confident.  It was exactly what I needed to motivate me to keep going.  And so, I did.

Here we are, one month away.  Last week, I had a slow but surprisingly un-horrible 19-mile run.  It was officially the farthest I had ever moved my body, and although there were walk breaks and I certainly didn't break any speed records, it was the first time I began to truly believe in my heart that I just might be able to do this after all.  Right now, I'm sitting on my back porch, and I just finished a pretty solid 15-mile run (immediately following two 12-hour night shifts and running on nothing but coffee fumes and adrenaline, no less)... and believe it or not, I actually almost enjoyed it.  Next week, I face 20 miles.  For some reason, that number is impossibly daunting, even though I've already survived 19.  I'm already anxious about attempting it.  And I'd be lying if I said that I'm not completely freaking out about hitting the "one month out" point.  But it's almost a good kind of freak-out.  The kind that tells you that you are getting ready to do something terrifying and nauseating and really fucking hard... but also, something really, really amazing.  And if I had to give it a number, I'd say I'm 34% confident that I'll actually be able to do this thing.  And that's 100% more confident than I was a few weeks ago.  So, I'll take it.  I'll make my legs carry me 20 miles next week, no matter how long it takes or how ugly it is.  Then I will taper.  And then I will get on a plane, go to Portland, and line up with tens of thousands of other people at the starting line.  From there, I honestly don't know what will happen.  I still can't quite visualize myself crossing that finish line.  But I am going to try my damndest to do it anyways.  And a month from right now, it will all be over.  No matter what happens, I'll be able to say that I stuck to the training plan, and I didn't quit when everything in my soul wanted to, and I did my best.  And that is a victory in and of itself.

So, yeah.  I'm going to try to run a marathon a month from today.  And to be perfectly honest, I can't wait to see what happens.

 

Haterade

First off, I'd like to start by thanking you all for the wonderfully positive response to my last post.  The support of friends means more than you know, and I appreciate each and every one of you. :)

And, since I am in writing mode again, I'm going to go ahead and write about a topic that I've been wanting to touch on for weeks but haven't gotten around to.  Don't worry, no more serious stuff for this week.  I think Sunday's post exceeded my annual legal limit of sappiness, so I'll keep this one light.

As most of you know, CrossFit is growing rapidly in popularity worldwide.  It has gone from a relatively unknown sport for the fittest of the fit, to a wide-spread fitness phenomenon accessible to anyone with the desire (and the balls) to try it.  CrossFit boxes are popping up all over the place.  The increase in numbers of affiliates, participants, and Open competitors in 2012/2013 as compared to previous years are pretty staggering:

From Tabata Times

From the CrossFit Games Facebook page

 

 

As with anything else that goes from fairly obscure to relatively mainstream in a short period of time, CrossFit has generated a lot of buzz.  It's all over the media.  ESPN airs the Games reruns fairly regularly.  And the internet has been inundated with more CrossFit talk than anyone could possibly have the time or desire to read.  Even a die-hard like myself.

 

Some of the stuff out there is positive, informative, and accurate.  However, for whatever reason, CrossFit seems to be extremely polarizing.  And for every one of us who have been "drinking the Kool Aid," it seems there are plenty of people out there who are chugging the HATERADE.  Yep... for reasons I can't quite understand, there seem to be an abundance of people out there with an unexplainable and vehement hatred for the sport, the lifestyle, and, apparently, everyone who participates in it.  And unfortunately, bad press always seems to speak louder than positive press.

 

 

 

The result?  A billion anti-CrossFit rants making their way around the World Wide Web, making people who don't know any better think that we are all a bunch of 'roided-up freaks who eat raw dinosaur meat for breakfast and sacrifice chubby virgins at our cult gatherings.

 

There have been some pretty memorable ones floating around lately.  (The Uncle Rhabdo diatribe was a personal favorite of mine.)  Some of them at least make an effort to be legit, citing medical terminology and interviewing doctors and physical therapists who feel that CrossFit does more harm than good.  And while I don't agree with most of the information or the rationales behind it, I have to at least give them credit for keeping it semi-professional.  Some of them are nothing more than rants, based solely on opinion... but some are at least well-written.   But the one that finally drove me to commentary is the magnificently ridiculous piece of garbage that I'm about to share with you... which is neither legit OR well-written.  And I just can't help myself.  It's too easy.

 

I'll be quoting the original piece throughout my response, but if you want to read the full column in all of it's absurd and obnoxious glory, you can do so HERE.  Evidently it has been around for awhile, but I only had the good fortune of reading it recently.  (Thank you Danielle Ripper for sharing this gem!)

 

In case you don't feel like wasting time and brain cells on these shenanigans, I'll give you a quick summary.  This gentleman, who pretty much admits to being a sexist alcoholic frat boy (not in so many words, but the sentiment is there), appears to have tried CrossFit for a period of time in 2011 and hated it, and now has come up with 10 reasons why CrossFit is the worst thing on earth and everyone should stop doing it.  Each "reason" is highlighted with a ridiculous photograph and an explanation of why CrossFit and CrossFitters suck.

 

My first response to this piece of "writing" was to laugh.  Not because of witty writing style or clever wording, but because this guy is so incredibly douchey that you really can't help but laugh at him.  My second reaction was an immediate need to point out exactly how laughable this nonsense really is.  So, I'm going to do just that.  In underlined font, you will find all of the reasons why Sexist Alcoholic Frat Boy (henceforth to be referred to as SAFB) thinks that CrossFit is the devil.  In italics, you will find a directly quoted explanation for each reason, straight from SAFB's column.  And in bold, you will find my rebuttal.  Enjoy.

 

 

The title: #STOPCROSSFIT.

 

Clever, no?

 

The author goes on to describe how, in a post-college effort to get in shape, he allowed a coworker to talk him into joining a CrossFit box.  He then explains that it was the worst experience of his life, that he was lucky if he used one of his prepaid three weekly sessions because it made him so miserable, and that he has determined that CrossFit is a cult.  (How refreshing.  We've never heard that analogy before!)  He then goes on to list "10 terrible things about CrossFit and everything that goes with the cultural phenomenon."

 

SAFB hates the following things about CrossFit and CrossFitters:

 

1) "People who post Facebook statuses about CrossFit."

 

"Facebook asks, “What’s on your mind?” Facebook does not ask, “How was CrossFit today, you yolked badass?” Nobody gives a single fuck that you completed the WOD (workout of the day) in 3 minutes and 34 seconds, or that you finished in sixth place out of the fifteen people in your class. Stop uploading videos of yourself executing the perfect hang clean, or photos of you in the pushup position. You’re scaring us."

 

My response:  Guilty as charged.

 

Yep, I've been known to post a big PR or especially tough WOD on Facebook.  And yep, I know that a solid 90% of the people on my friends list do not, as you so eloquently stated, "give a single fuck" about what I did at the box today.

 

I also know that I'm not particularly interested in looking at the 75 selfies someone posted from their bathroom last night, or how many beverages you pounded over the weekend, or constant laments about fantasy football failures,  or absurd political rants, or play-by-play status updates about the potty training process of my friends' children.  But I certainly do not berate anyone for it.  I simply choose to ignore it.  Freedom of expression, sir.  Just as you have every right to post your biased, uneducated anti-CrossFit rant on the internet for all to see, I have every right to share my accomplishments with a limited audience on Facebook.  Deal with it.

 

 

 

And, by the way... the fact that I can probably back squat more than you can does not make me "scary".  It makes me awesome.  Which brings me to #2...

 

 

2) "Getting destroyed by girls."

 

"You roll into the gym on your first day and notice that there are three small members of the female sex in your class. These chicks can’t weigh more than 120-pounds on a bad day. You’re thinking, “I’m going to destroy these little girls and show them how big my dick is.”

 

Wrong.

The whole thing is set up as a unisexual even playing field. You’ll be powering through 150-pound thruster reps while one of those little girls next to you is doing nothing but the bar and absolutely wrecking your workout time. Either that, or the chick working out next to you will be a freak beast who warms up with more weight than you can lift, which is totally emasculating.

Speaking of which, ladies, CrossFit will not make you sexy. It will make you frightening."

Oh, my.  Where do I even begin?

First of all... the fact that you would think, much less admit to thinking, a phrase like "destroy these little girls and show them how big my dick is"... implies that your dick is not, in fact,  very big at all.  And I'm sorry if it shrinks an inch every time you get out-lifted, out-run, or out-performed by (gasp!) a CHICK.  But the fact of the matter is, there are some pretty badass girls out there.  Badass girls who do not share in your self-admittedly crappy attitude and non-existent work ethic.  And it doesn't surprise me one bit that they kicked your ass in all of the WODs you attempted.

Secondly, the "unisexual even playing field" that you lament doesn't bother real CrossFitters.  Because, as a general rule, sexist pigs who feel the need to out-lift a chick in order to validate their manhood, don't make it very long in this sport.

Thirdly... please show me the WOD where RX thrusters are 150lb for men and 45lb for women.  I'm very curious where you obtained this data.

Fourthly... I'm sorry that you find CrossFit girls to be "emasculating" and "frightening."  Not because I give half a crap what you think, but because you echo a sentiment that has been plaguing our country for years, and that I thought we were finally getting past: the idea that strong women can't be beautiful.  That muscles are "scary".  What a sad commentary on our country (and people like you) that unhealthy and emaciated is perceived as beautiful, when strong and healthy and athletic is considered less attractive.  Garbage.  You know what I think is beautiful?  Confidence.  And I think you'll find that the average scary-muscle-rocking CrossFitter has a lot more confidence than the poor girl who is starving herself in an attempt to obtain the conventional definition of beauty.



3) "Everyone is cheering you on."

"You’ll never feel more insecure about yourself than while you’re pathetically finishing up a workout in last place, hacking up tar and puking up alcohol from last night’s happy hour, as the rest of the class cheers you on.

I remember one specific morning where I yacked up bile outside the gym after a lap around the building, and then ran inside to finish my final round of kipping pull ups. The rest of the class surrounded me, clapping and cheering, urging me on to personal victory. Their enthusiasm caused me to truly hate every single person on earth and everything about myself at the same time."

Ugh..  Totally with you on this one, dude.  A community where people support each other,, share enthusiasm for a mutual passion, want each other to perform well, and do their best to encourage others when they are struggling?  That's the worst.

You know what I find equally offensive to being cheered on through the end of my WOD?

This puppy sleeping between two fluffy bunny rabbits:

YOU BASTARD!

 

Completely unacceptable.

 

 

 

4) "You only care about beach muscles."

 

"If your goal is chiseling out a six-pack and some gnarly biceps to impress bitches at the pool, you’re in the wrong place. These people want to turn you into a fucking monster, not a precisely toned piece of man candy. They’ll have you training to play offensive guard for the New England Patriots, not doing crunches until you look like that Eskimo kid from the Twilight series."

 

I could comment on the abundance of "precisely toned pieces of man candy" in our local CrossFit community.  I could express my condolences for any and all "bitches at the pool" who you are trying to impress, because I can only imagine how your presence could ruin a perfectly good day of sunbathing.  But the main thing I took away from this gem of a paragraph is that you are a full-grown man who just referenced a movie about sparkly vampires.

 

 

 

5) "There is nothing worse than a CrossFit couple."

"Developing a sexual relationship at the gym is just weird. You’re in there getting all sweaty, smelling like ass, and breathing like James Gandolfini, working up hormones to convince yourself that your sex drive hasn’t prematurely faded to that of a 65-year-old retiree, and then in the midst of your post-workout high you spit game to the blonde doing abs in the corner? Yeah, that’s not creepy.

 

This phenomenon is far worse in a CrossFit gym, because you’re in small groups with the same people day after day. There were at least four couples at my location that I’m positive were making zoo noises on top of each other on a nightly basis. They tried to keep it professional in the presence of the other cult members, but masking the fact that they did naked burpees with each other in bed proved impossible.

I’m guessing the divorce rate for CrossFit couples has to be over ninety percent. Oh, you met in the middle of a WOD when you tripped over each other between stations? That’ll be a cute story for your freakishly muscular offspring.

“Daddy used to creepily stare into the depths of mommy’s ass while she did squats at CF.” "

 

While I very rarely see anyone "spitting game" at TPA (do people really say things like this?  In real life?), I do know of plenty of CrossFit couples at our box.  Most of them are married, and started doing CrossFit together... although I do have it on good authority that there is at least one TPA couple who met through CrossFit. :)  Honestly... what is wrong with having shared interests and mutual passions with one's spouse?  How is this any different than a couple that shares a love for watching football, or traveling, or any other mutual hobby?  And as for the longevity of these couples, I would think that having a shared passion would be a benefit, not a hindrance.  Not to mention that strength, flexibility, and stamina are desirable attributes in a spouse, no?



 

As for couples "making zoo noises on top of each other every night"... what do you care?  Perhaps if you spent a little more time focusing on your workouts instead of worrying about who was doing "naked burpees" together, maybe you would have gotten a little more out of the experience.

And for the record... I can't speak for everyone.  But this particular CrossFitter does not do voluntary burpees.  Ever.  Naked or otherwise.


6) "It's not a fun hobby, or something you look forward to."

"Getting off work and knowing that I still had to go to CrossFit was the most miserable feeling I have encountered post grad.

You might be asking, “Why didn’t you switch to morning workouts, you lazy jackass?”

Going to sleep and knowing that I had to wake up and go straight to CrossFit was the second most miserable feeling I have encountered post grad."

Speak for yourself, dude.  CrossFit is one of my favorite parts of the day.  I look forward to it through all 12 hours of my night shifts.  Is it for everyone?  No.  Do a lot of people enjoy it immensely?  Yep.  So perhaps you should put a little disclaimer on that statement.

Oh, and for someone who has allegedly written a book, you should know better than to end a sentence with a preposition.  BOOM.  Busted by the grammar police, clever guy.


7) "The guy who has no chance of ever actually getting in shape."

"He’s overweight, he’s not athletic, and he probably has a drinking problem. It’s admirable that he’s joined CrossFit in an attempt to turn his life around, but everyone there can see it in his eyes. He’s just not cut out for this. Some people have the inner-drive necessary for success, others don’t.

He halfheartedly laughs about how he fell off the wagon again last night and smoked a few cigs after one too many gin-and-tonics at Chili’s. Then he apathetically goes through the motions during the WOD, impressing no one, including himself. Afterwards, he fakes inspired conversation with the coaches and diehards before heading home to jerk off on his living room couch and fall asleep without showering.

You might hate it there, but at least you know you could be giving 110% if you needed to. This guy’s 110% is your 50%. He’s genetically inferior."

This statement pisses me off more than any other nonsense SAFB has unleashed upon us.  For three reasons.

1) CrossFit is effing HARD.  I don't care how "apathetically" you think someone is going through the motions... just getting through a WOD is pretty badass in and of itself.

2)  One of my favorite thing about CrossFit is that I don't have to compare my 100% to anyone else's 100%.  I do the best I can to play off of my strengths and improve my weaknesses.  That's why all of the WODs can be scaled, modified, etc. to accommodate all levels of fitness and skill.  Which is awesome for me, because I'm nowhere near as badass as some of the amazing athletes at TPA, and probably never will be.  But I'm a hell of a lot better than I used to be.  I choose to focus on that.

3)  "Some people have the inner drive necessary for success, others don't."  Yep.  Exactly.  Because that "genetically inferior" guy is still at it.  Still trying.  Still taking steps to make his life better.  And you are the judgmental, elitist tool who is criticizing him from your couch.  Tell me about this "inner drive" of yours again...?


8) "Eating Paleo is fucking impossible."

"I’m a skinny guy, and I have a mean pair of chicken legs. I’m talking total lack of calf definition. It’s a genetic trait that I inherited from my father, and it’s never going away. I could do leg workouts with Adrian Peterson, and I would still have limbs like a stork. This is never going to change, and I have made peace with that fact.

However, one of the CrossFit coaches was constantly urging me to drink an entire gallon of milk a day in order to bulk up. Are you fucking high, sir? This is Texas. It’s 110 degrees outside during the dark of winter, but I digress.

Paleo, also known as “the caveman diet,” is impossible to maintain. We live in a country where there is delicious fast food available on every corner. How in the name of God am I supposed to eat like a hunter-gatherer?"

Milk isn't Paleo.  Are you fucking high, sir?

Paleo is not, in fact, impossible.  I followed a fairly strict Paleo diet for six months, and didn't seem to have a problem surviving without the McDonalds food group.

Speaking of which... check out the research going around about "unidentifiable fibers" found in Chicken McNuggets.  I've never found anything like this in my spaghetti squash:

Yummy!

 

 

 

 

9) "It's dangerous in there."

 

"Any trainer will tell you that working out with improper form is incredibly unsafe. For this reason, proper form is stressed to no end in a CrossFit gym. This is because you’re doing an absurd amount of different lifts and motions on a totally sporadic basis.

 

The problem is, nobody actually uses proper fucking form. People were dropping like flies in there. Once a week, which was exactly how many times I actually showed up, someone would stroll into the gym with a heating pad wrapped around a part of their body, and sit in the corner with a massive rubber band, rehabbing their injured muscle.

Most of these people will have zero cartilage left in their body by the age of fifty."

 

This is probably the most common argument I've seen out there against CrossFit: that it's DANGEROUS.  That we all throw around too much weight with bad form.  That we are pushed too hard.  That we are perpetually injured.  That we are all going to suffer from rhabdomyolysis because we are doing unreasonable things to our bodies.

This irks me.  Do people get hurt doing CrossFit?  Of course.  We're asking our bodies to do some pretty extreme things, and sometimes we get injured.  Sometimes we have overuse injuries.  We are athletes.  We do work.  And sometimes, we royally eff up our bodies in the process.

But tell me... what sport ISN'T dangerous, in some capacity?  How many kids do we read about in the news with traumatic brain injuries from high school football?  A lot.  I work in an ER.  I've seen injuries from pretty much every kind of physical activity imaginable.  Running.  Biking.  Skiing.  Baseball.  Gymnastics.  Dance.  Basketball.  Wrestling.  Lacrosse.  Field hockey.  I even once had a patient who managed to injure himself in a heated game of ping pong.  Injuries happen.  Any time you push your body to its limits, you run the risk of hurting it.  So why are all of these people raging against the CrossFit machine?  How is it any different from any other sport?

You're right.  Some of use let our form slip.  I am especially guilty of this.  Not denying it.  We are all accountable for our own performance and our own bodies.  The sport is not to blame.  We are.

I have been doing CrossFit for well over a year now, and have NEVER felt like I was being pushed too hard, or pressured to do anything I wasn't capable of doing.  Do our coaches expect 100% effort?  Yes.  But they want our 100%.  And they are incredibly good at knowing what that is.  At knowing where to draw the line.  I've suffered my fair share of injuries.  I once jacked up my back deadlifting with bad form... less than 5 minutes after my coach had tried to correct it.  I got hurt because I didn't listen.  I've been wrestling with a shoulder issue for months now... overuse, probably tendonitis.  NOT because my coaches push me too hard, but because I use poor judgment in taking rest days and I often get overly-ambitious with my lifts.  Both of which my coaches have been trying to get me to change.  And, most recently, I injured my wrist trying for a heavy clean that was outside of my strength and skill level.  My coaches weren't even there when that happened.  I can honestly say that every time I've injured myself at the box, it has been either a result of bad form, bad judgment, or both.  And each time, I can say with great confidence, that I wish I had listened to my coaches.  My injuries are not a CrossFit problem... they are a common sense problem, and I blame no one but my own stupidity for every single one of them.  I'm careless sometimes.  There are careless athletes in every sport.  CrossFit is no different.

That's no reason to hate the sport.


10) "It is a cult."

"I’m not saying all CrossFitters are sociopathic health nuts whose lives revolve around the prospect of daily self-improvement via unnecessarily intense exercise in a military environment, who have nothing else to live for outside work other than the one hour a day where they become master of their domain by throwing kettlebells around. I’m saying most CrossFitters are sociopathic health nuts whose lives revolve around the prospect of daily self-improvement via unnecessarily intense exercise in a military environment, who have nothing else to live for outside work other than the one hour a day where they become master of their domain by throwing kettlebells around."

Followed by this lovely photo:

 

 

 

Oooooh, where to begin?  Shall we start with the irony of the fact that this hyper-critical, foul-mouthed, excessively negative hater just used the word "sociopathic" to describe the most positive group of people I have ever had the pleasure to come across?

 

Nah.  Too easy.

 

"Health nuts"?  Since when does leading a relatively healthy lifestyle and enjoying vigorous exercise qualify one as a "health nut"?  I drink more wine than the average family of alcoholics.  I think cheese should be its own food group.  I am not, by any definition, a "health nut."  But the fact is, being healthy feels better than being unhealthy.  It allows my body to do the things I enjoy, allows me to do my job better, and hopefully will let me live longer so that I can put the smackdown on ignorant column writers for many years to come.

 

 

 

As for "not having anything to live for"... I declare shenanigans.  We all have friends, relationships/marriages, and jobs.  Most of my box mates have kids.  We all lead pretty full lives.  CrossFit is not what I live for.  But it sure makes living more fun.  And I don't care if you like it or not.

 

Yes, we get it.  You think we're a cult.  You think our community and dedication and drive and camaraderie make us freakish and abnormal.  Okay.  Let's move on.  We recognize that CrossFit isn't for everyone.  It takes a certain kind of person to do what we do... to want to do it, and to enjoy doing it.  If you are not one of those people, that's cool.  We're not going to criticize you for not doing something you hate.  So don't criticize us for doing what we love.

 

And finally... that picture.  Ugh.  The implication that CrossFit is pointless.  That, just because there is no ball and no teams and no one keeping score every day, it serves no purpose.  Well, guess what, SAFB?  If you ever come into my ER in cardiac arrest, you'll be thankful that I'm a "sociopathic health nut"... because when my undisputedly awesome chest compressions are the only things keeping your heart beating, I doubt I'll hear anyone complaining about the sport that allows me to do it so well.

 

I'm not training to be the best at exercise.  I'm training to be the best I can be at life.  And when your life is saving other peoples' lives 40 hours a week, you better believe it counts to be good at it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

End rant. :)

 



 

 



 



 

 

Giving Thanks and Taking Steps

Hi, friends!  Once again, I find myself apologizing for being a crappy and inconsistent blogger... but for a very different reason this time.  I'm no longer suffering from lack of inspiration or motivation, and I'm no longer wallowing in sadness or self-pity or doubt.  This time, my lack of blog posts is a good thing.  Because for the first time in a long time (maybe ever), I've been way too busy enjoying life to stop and write about it.  And, let me tell you... that is a glorious feeling. :)  However, I find myself faced with a rainy day, a rare chunk of spare time, a good night's sleep under my belt, and an abundance of inspiration after attending a really beautiful sermon this morning.  So, here I am.

Confession:  I love November.  Always have.  I love the cold weather and the changing leaves, and the promises of snow and skiing and long winter walks in the woods just around the corner.  It's the last month before the two-month period containing my favorite days of the year:  Christmas, New Years, and my birthday.  And it is also the month in which we celebrate Thanksgiving... a holiday that I never really appreciated all that much until recent years.  (Honestly, if you're going to base an entire holiday around a meal that will provide enough calories to feed a small army, that meal should contain a little less cranberry sauce and a lot more cheese.  But, that's just me.)  The older I get, the more I understand that Thanksgiving means more than stuffing one's face, drinking way too much wine with one's family, and falling into a tryptophan coma.  And this year especially, the holiday has a lot of meaning for me.  More than ever before, and more than I could have anticipated.

Back in college, a few friends and I started the tradition of picking one thing every day in November for which we were thankful.  If I remember correctly, this idea started at a bar at approximately 1am on November 1st, and my first declaration of thanks was for Jack Daniels.  Over the years, my "thanks" have gotten a little more mature.  (Last year, I was thankful for dirty martinis, which is clearly a classier thing to be thankful for than good ol' #7.)  Every year, there are the standbys.  My wonderful friends.  My horse.  My completely dysfunctional but strangely appealing family.  The fact that I have a best friend who I have known for most of my life (closing in on the two decade mark!) and who is still one of the most amazing people I know.  (Love you and miss you every day, Ericka Pauline Schaefenafer Caslin!)  Having a job that pays the bills, a roof over my head, plenty of food to eat, and having never had to go without anything that I truly needed.  I've always had a lot for which to be thankful.  However, my "month of thanks" kind of became a mind game over the years.  The more unhappy and unfulfilled I became with my life, the more guilty I felt for feeling that way, and the harder I tried to compensate by coming up with 30 things to be thankful for each year.  I thought if I could come up with enough of these things, that maybe I would be able to see the good in my life and change my crappy perspective, and that maybe then I would stop being ungrateful and unhappy.  But in recent years, it's mostly just made me depressed having to bullshit my way through by mid-month.  (If memory serves, 2011 contained the following gems of thanksgiving by the end of the month: flannel sheets... getting to wear the equivalent of blue pajamas to work every day... the guy at my local gas station who didn't judge me when I showed up every evening for my two giant Red Bulls and my pack of smokes...  and good toilet paper.  And while I still appreciate the merits of a nice, soft roll of two-ply, it always felt like I should be able to come up with something more meaningful in my life than an absence of ass-chafing toilet tissue.)

This year, everything is different.  For the first time, I am overwhelmed with thankfulness for so many things that I wish November contained more days.  Each day, I have trouble narrowing it down to one thing.  Never in my life have I felt luckier, more thankful, more blessed.  Part of it is a change in perspective... finally being able to pull my head out of my ass and truly be grateful for all of the wonderful things I've had in my life all along.  But in addition to changing my perspective, I've also made some pretty epic changes in my life in general this year.  And I couldn't possibly be more thankful for all of the beauty and growth and enormous joy that have come as a result.

As I've gone through the month, choosing something every day for which to be thankful, I started to notice a theme.  They were almost all connected by one common thread.  And that common thread is something for which I am eternally thankful... today, and every day, more than words can possibly express.  Because when I really take a good hard look at the best changes in my life over the past year, they all started from the same place.  The same day.  The same moment, really.

I am so, so thankful for the first day I walked into CrossFit TPA.

I know what some of you are probably thinking... oh, shit.  Here we go again.  Crazy bitch needs to lay off the Kool-Aid, because we've already read more than enough love letters to this TPA place.  And I don't expect everyone to get it.  To truly understand how four walls, a garage door, some mats, and a bunch of bumper plates can change a life in the most epic way, for the absolute better.  But the honest truth is, it can and it has.  And not a day, or a moment, goes by in which I am not enormously thankful for those changes... for those four walls, the gains I've made and the lessons I've learned within them, and the people with whom I share them.

I know it's all been said before, in previous blog posts.  I've written, ad nauseum, about all of the ways my time at TPA has changed me, and helped me grow, and brought enormous and unprecedented happiness to my life.  It all started with wanting to lose weight, because I thought that being thin, looking better, and being more conventionally attractive would automatically make me a happier person.  And yes, being healthy has been a wonderful and much needed change.  The number on the scale has been a nice bonus.  But there are so many other numbers that mean infinitely more to me.

13.1: the distance of the half marathon that I never, in a million years, thought I'd be able to finish.

17: the number of minutes I've shaved off of my 5K time since my first race.

93: the number of pounds I've added to my max clean and jerk since my first attempt.

11/11/13: the day I RXed my first hero WOD.

5:  The number of Open WODs I made it through without scoring a zero.

4:  The number of WODs I survived in one day at the Patriot Games without making a complete fool out of myself or crying like a little bitch.

240/220/335: my max back squat/front squat/dead lift numbers to date... from a girl who used to watch people at the box and think, "I'll never be strong enough to lift that."

One of the things I love most about CrossFit is the ability to see quantifiable progress.  There are few things more satisfying than looking back in my WOD book and seeing that I just took a big chunk of time off of a benchmark WOD, or to see that my overhead squat has more than tripled since the first time I went for a one rep max, or to smash through a WOD doing box jumps on a 24-inch box and remember that it wasn't so long ago that I was scared of the 12-inch "baby box".  The numbers don't lie... concrete evidence of progress.  Improvement.  Getting stronger, faster, better.

And then there are the bigger gains... the ones that don't show up on a clock, or can't be counted by the plates on your bar.  The empowerment that comes from doing things that you once thought were impossible.  The satisfaction that comes with hard work and the resulting accomplishments.  The confidence that comes from letting your guard down and finally being yourself (because who has the energy to try to put on an act after being brutally demolished by Fran or Grace or one of their nasty friends?) and being accepted for who you truly are.  The many different kinds of strength that I've gained from my time at the box... strength of conviction, of faith, of self... all of the things I discussed in my last blog post are more applicable now than ever, proving that my scary-looking quads are not the only things that have grown since I took my first timid steps as a CrossFitter.  I've grown stronger, braver, more self-assured, more optimistic.  I've grown healthier.  I've grown happier.  And while I may be just over half of my former size, I am twice the person I've ever been before.  And that is a truly remarkable gift for which I will never stop being thankful.

If I had to sum up, in one word, what I'm most thankful for about my time at TPA, I'd have to say... courage.  I lived so much of my life as a weak person... physically, yes, but also mentally and emotionally.  I had no faith in myself, or in anyone else.  I was unhappy most of the time, and grew to hate the person I'd become.  I was scared of everything... scared of change, scared of letting people in, scared of being lonely and miserable for the rest of my life.  I was so scared of never going anywhere... but I was more scared to move.  To make changes.  To try anything new.  To fail.  To take steps towards something better.  So I became stagnant; standing still, afraid to make the first move, just waiting for magic to happen.  For some glorious change to fall out of the sky, land in my lap, and make my life everything I'd ever wanted it to be.

If a random whim and a well-timed Google search hadn't brought me to CrossFit TPA, I'd probably still be waiting.

Change doesn't just happen.  I learned that quickly at the box.  You don't get stronger just by wishing for it... you have to work for it.  You don't get good at something without giving it everything you've got.  You never succeed if you're too afraid of failure to try.  You never know what you're capable of until you push the limits.  And you'll never be happy with who you are, if you spend your life trying to be someone else.  Courage is everything.  Courage to try.  Courage to give it your all, even when your all isn't what you'd like it to be.  Courage to move forward.  Courage to change. Courage to be honest... with others, and with yourself.  This is what I have taken away from my 15 months at TPA.

Lifting heavy shit gives me courage.  Attempting a lift at a weight I've already failed at multiple times... takes courage.  The first time you finally nail it at that weight... breeds courage.  Being stronger than I ever thought I could be... increases courage.

Having a passion for something at which I am inherently crappy gives me courage.  It's so easy to do something day after day if you are good at it... if it comes naturally to you.  But to suck at something from day one... to struggle for every skill, every movement, every gain... to fairly consistently finish last in any "for time" WOD even after all these months... to know that I'm never going to be the fastest, or the strongest, or the best CrossFitter, or probably even a semi-good CrossFitter... to know all of this, and to keep going every day, and to love every piece of it none the less... to realize that you don't have to necessarily be good at something in order to enjoy it... finally being able to redefine success, on my own terms... these things have given me courage.

Being surrounded by amazing, inspiring athletes gives me courage.  Watching people fight and succeed every day.  Watching a friend finally master a skill they've been working on for months.  Seeing the smile on someone's face when they finally get to write their time in the "RX'ed" column for the first time.  Watching people do things that seem impossible... lift impossible amounts of weight, put up impossible Fran times, accomplish impossible things with their bodies.  The more I do it, the more I realize that there is no "impossible" in CrossFit.  There's just hard, harder, and really effing hard.  And seeing people do the really effing hard stuff inspires me to try harder myself.  And who knows?  Maybe I'll get there someday.  Or maybe I won't.  But either way, watching people make the impossible, possible... gives me courage.

And being surrounded by amazing, inspiring friends gives me the most courage of all.  Having people in my life who understand me.  Who like me for who I am, rather than for who I think I should be.  Who support me endlessly, whether I'm doing something as small as going for a 5-pound PR, or something as big as making a seriously major life change.  Who have my back, no matter what.  And who make me feel like it's okay to be weird and different and a little bit crazy.  Which I am, and always will be.  Finally being okay with that has given me more courage than anything else.

I always used to hear stories about people making enormous transformations in their lives... about people "finding themselves."  And I always thought it was a little bit ridiculous.  How does one "find" their self?  And how does one "lose" their self in the first place?  I always thought, we are who we are.  You have the cards you're dealt.  Your life is what it is.  How pretentious I always thought these people were, with their tales of self-discovery and self-fulfillment.

It wasn't until I woke up one day and realized that I'd somehow become cynical, bitter, unhappy, and a shadow of my former being, that I finally understood what it truly meant to be lost.  To lose one's self in the most crushing way.  To realize that life had lost its joy somewhere along the line, and that I'd stopped trying to find it.  And it wasn't until I found TPA, and the people I've met there, that I started the process of figuring out who I am and what I want.  The process of "finding myself."  Because that process takes a courage that I'd never possessed before.

I have it now.  The courage to figure out myself, my dreams, who I want to be and where I want to go from here.  The courage to get out of my comfort zone.  Which may not seem like that much, to some.  My comfort zone wasn't so bad, really.  There were lots of happy hours and dirty martinis and all of the cheese a girl could ask for.  An endless supply of boxes to hide in.  It felt safe and comfortable and familiar.  At times, I was reasonably happy there, in my comfort zone.  But there comes a time when you have to decide if "reasonably happy" is enough.  And I decided it wasn't enough for me anymore.  And it never truly would be.  So I took my first tentative step out of my comfort zone, and into the four walls of TPA.  The rest, as you know, is history.  And each step I take away from my comfort zone is a step towards the life I want to live, and the person I want to be.

This summer, I took an enormous leap of faith.  I faced the scariest Scared Shitless moment of my entire existence, and instead of turning back, I dove head-first into the terrifying unknown.  I had a choice between standing still and being safe... and turning my entire life upside down in ways that I never even thought possible, for a chance at happiness that I wasn't even sure was possible.  And for the first time in my life, I didn't let the fact that I was scared shitless, and uncertain, and completely unprepared for the consequences, hold me back.  I didn't let the likelihood of failure slow me down... I just jumped.  And while the months that followed were undoubtedly and unequivocally the most difficult and painful and downright terrifying months of my life, I fought through them.  Survived.  Became stronger than ever.  And somewhere, amidst that fight, I found what I'd been looking for.  I found myself.  I found what I wanted.  And I found a happiness that I never knew was possible.  And the past few months have been, just as undoubtedly and just as unequivocally, the happiest, most beautiful, most amazing months of my entire life.  I can't even describe it.  For the first time in so long, maybe ever, I feel like I am exactly where I am meant to be, doing exactly what I'm meant to do, with the person I'm meant to spend my life with.  And I truly feel like I am the best version of myself, in every way.  What an incredible journey it has been... and what an incredible reward I've been given for sticking it out.  I never knew life could be quite this awesome.  And all because of one really, really big leap of faith.

And I can honestly say that I never would have had the courage to take that leap, if it hadn't been for the things I've learned and the people I've met at CrossFit TPA.

So yes, when I say that the box changed my life in a truly epic way, I mean it quite literally.  Yep, four walls, some mats, and some bumper plates have taught me more in 15 months than anything else has in 31 years.  And I am so incredibly, unbelievably, indescribably thankful.  For all of it.

I'm thankful for the journey I've made within those walls.  For the changes I've seen in myself, physically and emotionally, that I never thought possible. 

I'm thankful for the people I've met on that journey.  People who have become family.  People who have supported me every step of the way, through every change and every stumble.  When I was in a terrible place this summer, and the rumor mill was working overtime, and it felt like the whole world was judging me, some truly amazing people at the box were the first to reach out to me.  To tell me that they didn't care what was being said, or if it was true, or what it all meant... that they loved me and had my back no matter what, and just wanted me to be happy.  In addition to everything these people have taught me about kindness and acceptance and unconditional friendship, they also taught me to stand tall no matter what... because quiet courage in the face of hardship speaks so much louder than the petty talk of the small-minded.

I'm thankful that CrossFit has helped me to overcome my fear of failure.  Not only because I've found some success there... but also because it has taught me that you can learn just as much, if not more, from your failures, if you have the right perspective.  It has been so freeing to let go of some of that fear.  I find myself trying new things that I never would have tried before.  Taking chances.  Living life to the fullest.  And, perhaps the most fulfilling result... I'm finally back in the saddle, for the first time in far too long.  Riding horses used to be the biggest, most important, most beloved part of my life.  The one thing at which I excelled, was successful, and truly enjoyed.  When time and financial constraints brought that to a halt for awhile, I felt like I'd lost a huge piece of my identity.  And for so long, I've been afraid to go back, because I was scared that it would be too much to handle if I wasn't good at it anymore.  But, as I've said so many times before, CrossFit and TPA have taught me that you don't have to be great at something to love it and benefit from it.  Getting back in the saddle has been an enormous contributor in rediscovering and redefining myself, and I couldn't be more thankful to have that part of my life and myself back.

I'm thankful for the opportunity to see little pieces of greatness every single day.  Whether it's watching Bova kill a workout in a time that would make Chuck Norris jealous, or watching a newcomer fight through the end of a tough WOD with everything they have, long after everyone is finished... the box is a daily reminder that there is greatness within all of us, if we are willing to dig deep to find it.  Being surrounded by greatness makes me want to be great, too.  So when the opportunity finally arose to do something great... to look fear in the face, take a stand, and fight for who I am and what I believe in... I was ready to seize that opportunity.  It is virtually impossible to be surrounded by these tremendous people, day after day, and not be inspired.  And that inspiration has made all the difference to me.

I'm thankful that, between those four walls, I've never felt like I had to be anyone but myself.  That I was comfortable in my own skin for the first time in my life.  That I could let my crazy, insecure, obsessive-compulsive freak flag fly, and no one thought any less of me for it.  At the box, we are family... immediately and unconditionally.  When you walk in that garage door, you join the family.  And the family that Frans together, stands together. :)  Over the past several months, as I discovered pieces of myself that were unconventional and scary to most of the world, my box family stood behind me.  Made me feel like it was okay to be this person... to be who I am, to love who I love, to live life to the fullest every single day, without worrying about getting approval from anyone but myself.  And while I've realized that no place is truly free of judgment, and that people will always talk, I've been so enormously thankful to find that the vast majority of this family was supportive and open-minded and, in some cases, even proud of me.  And as I begin the slow and often difficult process of exposing my true self and this new life to the outside world, it is such a blessing to have that constant reminder, from the wonderful people at TPA, that it doesn't really matter what anyone else thinks.  That the truly important thing is to be happy.  With the help of my friends, my family, I finally believe that.  I am finally not only okay with who I am... but actually like the person I've become.  For the first time, I find myself living a life of which I can be proud.  Not because of how much I can back squat, or where I find myself on the leaderboard... but because of who I have become.  Because I finally can say that I think I am a decent human being... an honest person, a person with strength of conviction, who stands up for the things in which she believes.  Because I have finally taken control of my life... have stopped waiting for change to come to me, and started making change happen for myself.  Because I know who I am, what I want, and am not willing to settle for anything less than true happiness.  I used to think it was selfish to put happiness above all else; that happiness was supposed to be a byproduct of doing everything else right.  But I'm learning that you can't really make other people happy if you're unhappy yourself.  That you can't truly love another, until you learn to love yourself.  And I'm learning that, in finding happiness, I have also become a better friend.  A better nurse.  A better coworker.  A better daughter and sister and aunt.  A better person, in so many ways.  Yes, I still have doubts and fears and insecurities.  I think we all do.  But I don't let those insecurities run my life anymore, or stop me from doing what I love and being who I am.  There are still days when I leave the box knowing that I could have tried harder, pushed more, been better.  But I'm learning not to let small failures slow down progress in the big picture.  Yes, there is still a small part of me that is scared of all of the changes I'm making, and how they will impact my life in the long run, and the fact that there are people in my life who will never approve or understand.  But I've also learned that fear is a part of life, and we choose whether it holds us back or makes us stronger.  And I'm choosing the latter.

If that's what comes from "drinking the Kool Aid"... I say give me that pitcher and a wall to smash through, because I'll take happiness and strength over doubt and weakness any day.

OOOOH YEAH!

(Please excuse my uncontainable need to reference bad 80's television advertisements.  And if you were too young to catch it... well, shit.  That would just make me feel old.  So don't tell me.)


Yep.  Four walls.  One garage door.  Some mats.  Some bumper plates.  To anyone who doesn't understand, that's all it looks like.  But to me, it's so much more.  Within those walls, I've found strength.  Confidence.  Courage.  True friendship.  Myself.  And love... the kind of epic, life-changing love that makes you fall asleep with a huge smile on your face every night, and wake up every morning glad to be alive.  The kind of love that makes you wonder how you survived without it, because for the first time you feel whole and complete and absolutely fulfilled in every way.  The kind of love that makes you a better person, and makes life so beautiful that you can hardly even believe it's real.  But that, my friends, is a story for another blog post. :)

So much change.  So much growth.  So many gifts.  I couldn't possibly be more thankful for that place, or those people.  And to think, it all started with a step through those garage doors.  One step.  A step I almost didn't take because I was tired, and feeling lazy, and had an episode of Grey's Anatomy DVRed that seemed like a much more enticing way to spend an evening.  But something made me take that step anyways.  And it has changed everything.

It seems like a dream, how content I feel right now.  How amazing it is to finally feel happy.  And it took a huge leap of faith to get me here.  But when I think about it, it wasn't just that one leap.  If the same opportunity had presented itself a year ago, I don't know that I would have even recognized it... and I definitely wouldn't have had the strength or courage to jump in after it.  It took so many steps to get me to the precipice... and each step was just as important, in its own way, as the big leap.

I think back to all of those steps, and how easy it would have been not to take them.  There was the step I took into Mojo to buy my first good pair of running shoes.  I could have easily used my bad knees as an excuse to continue plodding fruitlessly along on the elliptical machine in my basement until I got bored and went off in search of a nice cheese platter.  But instead I took the step, and was able to start running, which started everything.  There was the step into TPA for the first time... the fateful Google search that almost ended in a big wimp-out and another night in front of the TV (and probably more cheese), but instead turned into one of the best decisions I've ever made.  There was the step into the TPA Christmas Party last year, when I almost didn't go because I was still relatively new and painfully shy and unsure of my place at the box.  But I took that step, and ended up meeting, for the first time, the person who would later go on to change and enrich my life more than anyone else I've ever met.  There was the step I took into the box at 5:45am on the morning of Open WOD 13.1... something that scared the shit out of me, that I almost managed to find an excuse to skip, but which ended up turning into an enormously educational and empowering 5-week adventure with some truly amazing people.  The first step I took onto the turf at RAW for the Patriot Games... knowing I was underprepared and over-faced and was playing the role of the flat tire on an otherwise stacked team that deserved so much better.  But I did it anyways, and did my best, and it ended up changing me in ways that I can't even explain, in such a positive way.  My first step back into the box when my life went haywire this summer, after I found out that everyone was talking and everyone knew my secret... terrified of being judged and whispered about and disapproved of.  But my wonderful friends in the 8:30 crew didn't miss a beat, and treated me just as they always have: with kindness, acceptance, and respect.  And I've never been afraid to step into the box since.

So many steps.  Some seemingly insignificant.  All truly life-changing.

When I say that I have turned my life upside down this year, I am not exaggerating.  When I describe my leap of faith as "epic", I mean it.  And the rewards of that leap have been equally epic.  I'm in the best place I've ever been, and sometimes, it takes an enormous leap to get where you need to be.  But sometimes, you're closer than you think.  Sometimes, greatness is just outside your reach.  Sometimes, all it takes is one small step.

I'm certainly not in any place to be giving anyone advice... God knows, the last 6 months of my life have been a bizarre mix of Jerry-Springer-worthy and Lifetime-movie material, and I'm still trying to catch my breath from the whirlwind of change.  But there is one thing that I have learned, which I think applies to just about everyone.

When faced with the choice between standing still and taking a step forward... take the step.

Choose movement.  Choose progress.  Choose action.  Choose change.

If given the choice to step forward, take it.  If given the opportunity to do something positive for yourself, seize it.  If the world is trying to change you, let it.  Change can be terrifying.  But it can also be beautiful and healthy and exactly what you need.  And no matter how intimidating it may seem to make changes in your life, it is so much scarier to be stagnant... immobilized, frozen by doubt and insecurity, at a dead stand-still.  I believe we are born to learn and grow and change an evolve, and we can't do that if we're stuck in our tracks.

So, take the step.  Even if you don't know where it's leading you... take it anyways.  Even if you're not sure you're going in the right direction... go there anyways.  You'll never know what's out there if you don't step out of your cheese-and-martini comfort zone and take a look around.  You'll never know how far you can go, until you get started.

And you never know which step is going to be the one that changes your life forever.

“There is no passion to be found playing small - in settling for a life that is less than the one you are capable of living.” ~Nelson Mandela

Back in the saddle!  Thank you, TPA, for getting me there!

 

Gratuitous photo of me playing with an elephant.  Just because.