We're All Mad Here.

I've kind of adopted a full disclosure policy here in my blog, so I'm going to tell you something personal about myself.  This won't come as a surprise to anyone who knows me well, and probably won't shock anyone who regularly reads my posts.  But I'm going to tell you anyways.

I'm kind of crazy.

Wait, let me rephrase that.  I'm really crazy.  31 flavors of crazy.  Legitimately, certifiably, 100% bat-shit CRAZY.  I have more neuroses than in inpatient psych unit.  A good shrink could have a field day with them all.

It's not necessarily a bad thing.  In my advanced age, I've learned to embrace the crazy.  It's who I am, and I'm okay with that.  I just tell myself that it's part of my charm.

I could write a book about all the ways in which my brain is just not normal.  But for the sake of time, I will focus today on one of my many, many mental afflictions: OCD.

Yes, that's right.  I am extraordinarily, absurdly, comically obsessive-compulsive.

My particular breed of OCD doesn't affect all aspects of my life.  It's kind of selective.  I'm not obsessive compulsive in a germaphobe way (God knows, my job as an ER nurse would drive me over the edge if that were the case) or in a neat freak way (quite the contrary... I am currently in the running for the prestigious honor of World's Biggest Slob.  The current state of my house somewhat resembles a particularly gruesome episode of Hoarders).  Instead, it shows up randomly, in little ways.  I used to think I was just quirky, or superstitious.  But the older I get, the more I realize that my OCD tendencies are simply not normal.

Exhibit A: I like even numbers of items in my shopping cart.  If I have an odd number at check-out, I get a pack of gum.  Every.  Time.  And I don't really chew gum very often.  So I have a glove compartment completely full of Trident dating back as far as 2010.

Exhibit B: At work, I need (NEED) to have four pens in my right scrub shirt pocket.  At all times.  But not just any four pens.  It must be four blue 0.7 pens of the same brand.  If the clip breaks off of one of them, I must immediately go to the supply drawer and replace it.  If I accidentally switch one out for a black pen, or a 1.0-size ballpoint instead of 0.7, my entire life is thrown off until the situation can be rectified.  You think your toddler has mastered the hissy fit?  You haven't seen an epic melt-down until you've seen my reaction when I reach for a pen and realize that there are only three in my pocket.  I do not exaggerate.  Any of my coworkers will attest to this, as they have all witnessed such a melt-down at least once.

Exhibit C:  When running by myself, I seek out routes containing only left-hand turns.  I like to move in a counterclockwise direction.  Right turns piss me off.  I'm like a reverse Zoolander.

I could go on, but I believe I've presented sufficient evidence to support my case.

None of these things are particularly life-altering (unless you're the person who stole one of my pens... and then, God help you), and none of them get in the way of my ability to be a (relatively) functional member of society.  It's mostly just funny.  So, it has never really bothered me.  Just another thing that makes me weird.

For whatever reason, CrossFit has brought out a whole new level of my OCD.  I don't know if it's been obvious enough for my fellow TPA-ers to notice, but it is IMPERATIVE to me that certain things happen certain ways at the box.  My water bottle must be on the bench under the whiteboard during my warm up.  (No idea why.  I just like it there.  For the rest of the workout, it follows me wherever I go.  But for the warm up, that's its home.)  When we're doing max lifts, I religiously rack my bar in the same spot every time.  (TPA peeps, please note: second rack from the cubbies, closest to the wall... don't even think about it.)  I don't think I'd actually be crazy enough to kick someone off of "my" rack if they were already there... so I avoid the necessity to do so by making sure that I claim it IMMEDIATELY after the warm up is over.  I prefer the grey and black wall balls to the red and black ones.  I find the shiny kettlebells to be unacceptable.  I prefer the rough plates to the smooth ones.  And I refuse to mix the two on the same bar.  And the numbers must always face out.  Always.  OCD, in my case, also stands for Obsessive Chalk Disorder, because I use that shit like it's going out of style.  Not because I always need it, but because I feel better about life when both hands are evenly chalked prior to attempting anything on the bar.  I always use the far right-hand rower for my warm up, no matter what.  And I get legitimately disgruntled when, while warming up, we do butt kicks before high knees instead of after.  (IT'S BACKWARDS, PEOPLE!!!!  EVERYONE KNOWS THIS!)

I told you I was crazy.

After three weeks of Open WODs, I have managed to settle into a pretty consistent routine.  On Wednesday evening at 8pm, Tammy texts me the WOD while I'm at work.  I panic all evening.  I suck at the WOD on Thursday.  I am an angst-ridden disaster all day on Friday.  On Saturday morning, I wake up absurdly early, put on my BADASS socks (had I not found them after they went missing, I was totally going to have to skip weeks 3, 4, and 5 entirely), pace around my house awkwardly for awhile, and arrive at the box at 5:30am.  I do the same warm-up every week, followed by some more awkward pacing.  I then set up for the WOD wherever my crazy brain tells me it needs to be (usually as far from the door as possible).  Tammy is my judge.  At 6am, I do the WOD.  I follow the WOD by laying on the ground for awhile.  Every week, exact same routine.  The only thing that changes is the WOD itself.  With all of the anxiety I've had in relation to the Open, there is something enormously comforting about having this routine.  While I have no idea what to expect once the timer starts, I find it reassuring to know that I can control the time leading up to it.  Routine is key for crazy people.

So when I came to the realization this morning that my routine would be altered this week, I very nearly had a three-pen-worthy meltdown of epic proportions.  I realized today that Tammy isn't going to be there on Saturday!!!!!!  I've known this for weeks, but it only really just registered this morning, and I almost choked on my Quest bar when it hit me.  Who is going to tell me to focus?  Who is going to use their psychic powers to say exactly the right thing exactly when I need it?  Who is going to talk me through my pre-WOD freak-out without laughing at my craziness?  Who is going to give me the "don't-even-think-about-it" look when I get tired and start to slack off at the end?  HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO DO 13.4 WHEN MY ROUTINE IS GONE?!?!?!

Last week, this might have been my undoing.  Fortunately for me, I'm in a much better place mentally this week, and I was able to reign in the crazy, take a deep breath, and listen to my small and usually silent rational side, which told me that the world would most likely not end because my coach is going on vacation.  The routine, the socks, the superstitions... they are all just a security blanket for my crazy to hide under when I get scared.  In the end, the only thing that can make or break my performance is me.  And while I will no doubt miss having Tammy there to support us all as we tackle 13.4, I will still have the other coaches.  Julie and Tricia are amazing, and are every bit as supportive, encouraging, and tolerant of my neurotic nature.  And my fellow athletes will be there, suffering right along with me and cheering me through every step of the way, like they always have.

That's the amazing thing about TPA, and the people I've found there.  There is no shortage of support, even for a nut job like myself.  At the box, no one cares that I'm crazy.  There is no judgement and no criticism.  I can let my freak flag fly freely and know that, at the end of the day, these people will still have my back.  They'll still be my family, no matter how crazy I get.  And who knows?  Maybe we're all just a little bit crazy.  Maybe we have to be, to put ourselves through what we do every day and come out on the other side loving it even more than the day before.  Maybe we all have the wacko gene floating around somewhere in our genetic makeup, and that's what drives us to kick our own asses so ruthlessly on a daily basis... to love waking up feeling like we've been hit by a truck... to be at the box at 6am every Saturday for five weeks to compete in the Open knowing full well that most of us don't have a shot at advancing any further this year... and to actually be excited about it, no matter how brutal it gets.  Perhaps, in the words of the Cheshire Cat, "We're all mad here."  Or maybe it's only me, and everyone else is just super tolerant of my insanity.  I don't know.  But I do know that I'm going to be okay on Saturday.  I might be a basketcase, but my family will be there to get me through it.  At the end of the day, I'll be stronger, and better, and braver for it.  And I'll have the amazing people at CrossFit TPA to thank for that... for accepting me, crazy and all.

And as for my "security blanket"... oddly enough, I don't feel like I need it this week.  I'm not so scared anymore.  Believe it or not, I'm kind of excited to find out what kind of evil horrors 13.4 will hold.  It's been a good week, full of PRs and great WODs and remembering why I love this sport so much.  And even if 13.4 ends up being the "zero WOD" that I've been fearing since day one, at least when it's over, I'll be able to say I tried.  And this week, for whatever reason, I think I'll be able to feel good about it.  Positive affirmations, positive results.  Nothing crazy about that.

But you should still all text me at work at 7:59 tonight and remind me all of this.  Just to be on the safe side. ;-)