Awkward penguin.

Well, I managed to put off writing my 13.4 post all day yesterday.  Instead, I opted to spend my Easter Sunday drinking wine by myself and watching Sports Center, because that's my favorite coping/pouting mechanism when life kicks me in the ass.  Sometimes, I just need a little time to wallow in a sea of self-pity before carrying on with my life.  And yesterday, self-pity just to happened to taste a lot like Hill Family Estate's 2010 Merlot.  Don't judge me.

Of the four Open WODs I've completed so far, 13.4 was easily the most emotional yet... and if you've been reading my last few posts, you'll know that that is saying something.  I've been an emotional basketcase from Wednesday through Sunday of the past four weeks, but somehow, this one topped them all, and I'm still trying to sort out how I feel about the experience.  I figured today was as good a time as any to put a cap on my pouting time, get back to work, and face this beast head on.  So... here you go.  Disclaimer: there is lots of crazy in the upcoming paragraphs.

But before we get into the ugly details of 13.4, I'd like to take a minute to talk about... penguins.  Yep, penguins.  Not the hockey team (although we will discuss them at some point, because they are kicking ass and bringing immense amounts of joy to my life at the moment)... the flightless bird that lives in cold climates and has been immortalized by countless animated children's movies.  Yep, I want to talk about penguins.

Friday was a beautiful day, and, feeling invigorated by a good workout that morning, I decided to enjoy the weather and spend the afternoon at the zoo with a friend and her 6-year-old daughter.  Because I am fairly certain that I am a 6-year-old child myself most days, I love the zoo.  I love the big cats, I love the elephants, I love the baby rhino, I love the monkeys... and I love the penguins.  Always have.  So, as with every trip to the zoo, I spent a good chunk of time at the penguin exhibit in the aquarium.

When it comes to penguin exhibits (and I have been to many throughout the country... you might call me a penguin connoisseur) there are two kinds of penguins that I always notice.  First, there are the big guys: the King penguin, and the Emperor penguin.  People recognize these immediately:

They are beautiful.  Tall, regal, and elegant.  They are appropriately named, as everything about them looks royal.  On land, they move slowly and deliberately, but with a certain grace that is unmistakable.  Under water, they are effortless and amazing to watch.  They are pretty magnificent creatures.

Aren't they majestic?  There's a reason that the entertainment industry has capitalized on these big, beautiful birds... they are just plain awesome.  Awesome to look at, awesome to see in action... just really cool animals.

And then...

...then there's this guy.

This is the Macaroni penguin.  They are right alongside the King penguins at the Pittsburgh exhibit, and that fact alone exacerbates one of the most obvious facts about this species:  they are ridiculous.  They look ridiculous.  They make ridiculous noises.  They waddle in a ridiculous fashion.  Everything about them, from their short stature and fat bellies, to their absurd yellow penguin 'fro, to the questionable placement of their beady little eyeballs in relation to their abnormally ugly beaks... everything about this poor little guy is just laughable. 

Macaroni penguins are not graceful, like their more statuesque relatives.  Instead, they are silly looking and clumsy and completely awkward.  I often wonder if they really serve any purpose in the universe other than to make people laugh and to make their bigger, more handsome, less awkward counterparts feel better about themselves.

On this particular zoo visit, I watched a little Macaroni penguin battle two King penguins for a spot on a rock that, for reasons unknown to me, must have had some sort of magical penguin appeal, because this little guy really wanted to be on that particular rock.  He kept climbing up and trying to push the two bigger penguins off.  The big penguins didn't even move... they just sat there, looking like badass statues.  No matter how many times the little penguin pushed and shoved the big guys, they didn't budge.  He was trying to claim his rock when I got there, and still fighting for it 10 minutes later when I left, to no avail.

As I continued through the aquarium to see all the other weird-looking marine life, I couldn't stop thinking about that poor silly-looking penguin who would probably never get a spot on that damn rock.  I felt kind of bad for him, in all of his ridiculousness.  And then I realized why... the penguins kind of reminded me of CrossFit.  There are people who do these impossibly hard movements every day, making them look graceful and impressive and absolutely effortless.  People who can string together a million beautiful kipping pull ups, or who can clean and jerk ridiculous amounts of weight with perfect form, every time.  People who can make even the stupidest-looking things (ahem... burpees?) appear smooth and fluid and beautiful.  These people aren't just good at CrossFit, but they look good doing it.  They make insanely hard workouts look easy.  They make a loaded bar look weightless. They leap small buildings (or tall boxes, at least) in a single bound.  They are badasses, and they look the part.

I, my friends, am not that person.

I'm the little awkward penguin with the stubby legs and the bad 'do.  I'm built funny.  I walk funny.  I look funny.  I say the occasional funny thing.  For the most part, I'm pretty sure I've just been placed on this planet for comic relief.  And while there are (THANKFULLY) no mirrors at the box, I can assure you that, when I'm doing a WOD, there is nothing fluid or graceful or effortless-looking about it.  I flail.  I roll around on the floor.  I fall off of things.  My form is, as a general rule, atrocious.  It is a rare occasion, on any given lift or movement, that all four of my limbs are where they're supposed to be.  I make ridiculous faces.  I groan and swear a lot.  At the end of my workout, I can inevitably be found sprawled out on the ground, covered in sweat and chalk and mat particles, cursing the whiteboard and trying not to die.

Some people make CrossFit look good.  I am not one of them.

Throughout the Open, I've kind of felt like the awkward penguin, fighting fruitlessly against the big guys for my spot on the good rock.  And no matter how hard I try, or how much progress I make, it's never quite enough to get me there.  When you're surrounded by awesome, beautiful badasses, and you're the awkward, flailing, ridiculous-looking odd man out, how is anyone ever going to take you seriously?  Hell, most days, I can't even take myself seriously.  Once, just once, I'd like to be able to be the badass penguin... to stand up after a brutal workout knowing, without a doubt, that I absolutely kicked its ass.  That I rocked that WOD's world.  Just once, I want people watching me to think to themselves, "Damn, Emily looks awesome today."  Just once, I want to proudly stake my claim on the good rock, showing myself and the world that I am awesome and badass and capable of getting it right.

For most of last week, I felt like I was getting there.  After the previous week's epiphany, I was feeling great, loving my workouts, and really pushing myself to and past my limits.  Monday was my back squat PR, my first meeting with Mary, and a handstand push up breakthrough.  Tuesday's WOD had heavy clean & presses.  Last time these were in a WOD, less than a month ago, I had been struggling to get 75 pounds over my head for even a few reps.  However, knowing that heavy cleans would inevitably be showing up at some point in the Open, I decided to push my limits and see what kind of weight I could manage.  I was thrilled to learn that I was now capable of a 100-pound clean and press.  BOOM!  Up 25 pounds in less than a month on my nemesis lift?  Pretty badass.  Wednesday, I got a new snatch PR, and got in a solid WOD with lots of kettle bells.  I felt good.  Great, in fact.  I was ready for whatever 13.4 had in store for me.

When the WOD was announced at 8pm Wednesday evening, this is what I found:

Ooooh dear... there they were.  The heavy cleans.  And TOES TO BAR.  Which, PS, I didn't have.  Not even close.  Balls.

A week before, I would have been freaking out, knowing full well that my score would be a zero.  Prior to this week, I had never cleaned more than 75 pounds in my life.  But, oddly enough, I didn't panic.  I knew, after Tuesday, that I had a 95 pound clean & jerk.  And T2B had been on my "to do" list for months... I just hadn't given it due time or effort yet.  No time like the present, right?

I made it through Wednesday night's work shift in an almost eerie state of calm.  When I arrived at the box on Thursday morning, I was ready to do work.  After an absolutely brutal 6-round body weight marathon WOD (for a total of 144 air squats, 144 push ups, 144 walking lunges, and 144 box jumps... can you say LEG KILLER?!), I was completely gassed, but knew that I needed to put in some time on my toes to bar.  So, after a few minutes of recovering by flailing around on the mats awkward-penguin-style, I chalked up, took a deep breath, and squared off underneath the bar.  Time to see what you've got, I told myself.

At first, I didn't have it, or anything even remotely resembling it.  But I kept trying.  Jeannie had given me some pointers that morning, and I kept those in my mind as I tried to find a rhythm and get my swing just right.  And then, out of nowhere, I got one.  Just like that!  I was so shocked that I almost fell off the bar (speaking of awkward penguin moves)... I'd finally done a T2B!  VICTORY!!!!

By the time I left the box that day, I had done 5 successful toes to bar.  I couldn't string them together, and for every good one, there were several failed attempts.  But still... that was 5 more than I'd ever done in my life, and I was damn happy about it.  So happy, in fact, that I was feeling kind of awesome about 13.4.  It was the scariest Open WOD yet... two skills that I hadn't had a week ago.  But I had them now, against all odds, and I knew that, no matter what score I put up on Saturday, it would be an epic win.  I'd pushed myself, pushed my limits, and now was reaping the benefits.  This is what the Open is all about.  13.4 would not be my first "zero WOD" after all... and that, in itself, was a huge victory.  I was on cloud nine all day.

On Friday, I decided to try doing a scaled WOD instead of taking the day off, for the sake of my sanity.  If there's anything I've learned from the Open so far, it's that down time = panic time.  So I went to the box at my usual hour, and did a modified WOD with light weight to save my strength for 13.4 the following morning.  It felt good to move, and I was able to successfully complete several reps of solid toes to bar.  Not consistent, but as close as I was going to get with two days of practice.  I was as ready as I could possibly get, mentally and physically.

The rest of the day went unexpectedly smoothly.  Went to the zoo to hang out with the penguins, took my dogs for a little jog in the sunshine, went to happy hour yoga at Salt with the lovely Jenn... it was a good day.  Even that evening, when relaxing at home, I felt calm.  My weekly panic attack didn't hit until around 9:30, when I was getting ready for bed.  I texted Jeannie, who has quickly become my go-to friend for any and all Crossfit related freak-outs, and told her my meltdown of the week had finally caught up with me.  Her response?  "Tell it to fuck off."  It was exactly what I needed... a good laugh.  I followed her advice, told my brain to quiet down, and was able to get a good night's sleep.  Crisis averted.

I woke up Saturday morning at 4am filled with equal parts anxiety and excitement.  The time had come... this was my true test, even moreso than all of the others.  And it scared the shit out of me.  But I wanted this one.  Every piece of it.  And as I arrived at the box and started my warm-up, I still had the familiar urge to puke everywhere... but I had never felt more ready for an Open WOD.  I wanted a chance to show myself that I could be the badass penguin, just this once.

My bar was loaded, my chalk bucket at the ready.  All I needed was my judge and for the timer to start.  As I went through my pre-Open-WOD mantra (every piece, every time... want it...), I looked up to see Tricia approaching to do her judging duties, and I almost died laughing.  She was wearing Tammy's trademark Lulu jacket and a brown Tammy-esque ponytail wig.  Evidently my wonderful, amazing coaches had gotten the memo about how nervous I was to do the WOD without Tammy, and had conspired to channel the essence of Tammy all the way from Mexico to help me get through 13.4.  I couldn't do anything but laugh... but inside, I was so incredibly touched that I almost cried.  Much like the borrowed BADASS socks from 13.2, this small and seemingly silly gesture was evidence of what huge hearts our coaches have, and how much they care about the athletes at TPA.  For once in my life, everyone was willing to jump aboard my crazy train and ride it with me for a few stops.  It was perfect.  Now I was ready for 13.4!

As the ten-second timer began, there were no extraneous thoughts or distractions.  I was focused, eyes on the bar, ready to put my new skills to the test.  Go time.

..3... 2... 1...  everylittlepiece...

...GO!

I got right on the bar, took a deep breath, and went for the first 95-pound clean.  It felt good.  Another deep breath, then the jerk... and before I knew it, the bar was over my head, locked out just like it should be.  It felt awesome.  I barely even struggled with it.  My heart instantly felt a little lighter once that first rep was out of the way.  Knowing that I'd waste too much energy trying to do the reps unbroken at this weight, I dropped the bar, set up quickly, and banged out the next rep.  And then the next.  Already, my score was 3 reps higher than I'd have been able to score a week ago.  But I wasn't ready to go there just yet... I had work to do.  The hard part was still to come.

I hustled to the rig, gathered my thoughts, chalked my hands, and grabbed on to the bar... here goes nothing.  After a few fruitless attempts, I found my swing, went for it, and BOOM... toes to bar.  Then another.  Then another. 

I was ecstatic as I dropped to the ground and hurried back to my loaded bar.  My heart was soaring.  I could do this.  I was doing this.  And it felt incredible!  My friends were cheering, the adrenaline was through the roof... 95 pounds felt even lighter on the second round.  I took my time a little bit, making sure to avoid no-reps and concentrating on nailing my form.  My clean and jerks had never felt this good.  I don't know if they looked as good as they felt, but they felt nearly flawless.  Each time I punched that bar over my head, I got even more excited.  And although I refused to glance at the clock or to peek and see how Chris was doing on the opposite side of the box, I allowed myself a split second of distraction, as I finished my set of six and threw the bar triumphantly to the ground... I smiled a huge smile, and realized that this is what it must feel like to be the badass penguin.  I'd found my spot on the good rock.  This was it.  This was my moment!

And then... it wasn't.

I felt confident as I started on my set of six toes to bar. Surely if I could do three with ease, I could manage six.  I couldn't wait to get through them and get back to lifting... to see how many rounds of this beast I could make it through.  I nailed the first two toes to bar, struggled a little, and found the third.  Then I had a few failed attempts, and got a little rattled.  Managed to squeak out a questionable fourth rep, and then followed it up with a bunch of misses.  And then a bunch more.  And then the WOD completely fell apart at the seams. 

It was as though I had suddenly lost a skill that I'd had ten seconds ago.  I didn't feel overly tired or sore, so I knew it wasn't a physical problem.  I just couldn't find that swing, the timing, the rhythm.  I kept fighting for it, but the more I fought, the more frustrated I became.  I kept telling myself... two more reps.  Get two more stupid reps and get off of this bar so you can go back to lifting heavy shit.  You like heavy shit.  Just get these two freaking reps.  JUST DO IT.  FUCKSHITBALLS WHY AREN'T YOU DOING IT?!?!

I don't know how much time I spent flailing around on that bar like the most awkward of all awkward penguins ever to waddle the planet.  I tried to focus, to get my head back where it needed to be so I could finish this set and get on with it... but panic had crept up on me and was now taking up residence in my mind.  I can tell you the exact moment that it was over: when I finally let myself look at the clock, saw 27 seconds left, and lost all sense of logic or reason.  My brain went completely blank, and then panic totally took over.  At that moment, I might as well have just jumped down and called it a day, because once I get to that point, there's no coming back.  I continued to fight for those 27 seconds, and was still on the bar when the timer went off... but to no avail.  I hadn't gotten through my second round of toes to bar.  I hadn't gotten to lift anymore heavy shit.  I had fallen off of my rock.  Wait, no... it was worse than that.  I dove off my rock, head first, into a dark precipice of craptacular shame.  I'd let my brain get the best of me, and it had brought out the worst in me.  I had panicked, and because of my inability to control my emotions, I hadn't lived up to my potential.  I'd lost.  It was over, and I was back to being the ridiculous comic relief penguin.

13.4 score: 16 reps.

I don't know how it is humanly possible to go from unbelievable elation to crushing disappointment and defeat within the span of a 7-minute WOD, but the emotional 180 took more out of me than the WOD itself did.  I felt like the whole world was crashing down around me. Dramatic?  Maybe a bit.  But if you've ever experienced the best feeling EVER, and then had it suddenly yanked out from under you, it's kind of a dramatic moment.  Biggest let-down in history.  For a minute, I couldn't look at anyone.  I stood there, staring at the wall, trying to wrap my head around what had just happened.  When I turned around, my face must have told Tricia that I was upset with my performance, because she kindly skipped the false congratulations and went straight for the consolation.  I tried to take in her words, and Julie's, and everyone else's... "You just learned how to do toes to bar!"... "A month ago, you couldn't clean that weight at all, and you just did it 9 times beautifully!"... "You couldn't have done this WOD a week ago.  Look how far you've come!"

And they were right, every one of them.  I just couldn't believe it at that moment.  I did my best to smile and be gracious and thank them for their support, but I just needed to get out.  I needed to be alone.  And, while I hate to admit it, I needed to cry.

I barely made it out the door before I burst into tears.  And I'm not talking about dainty little droplets leaking discreetly from my eyelids... this was a sobbing, snot-nosed, somebody-just-ran-over-my puppy weep-fest.  Speaking of awkward penguin... there I was, alone, hiding behind an empty warehouse and bawling like a little bitch, and I wasn't even sure why.  I think it was a combination of frustration, disappointment, the horrible let-down of going from hero to zero in the blink of an eye, and just generally being overwhelmed by the insane range of emotions I felt during the course of those seven minutes.  This felt so much worse than any of my other Open disappointments, even worse than my 13.2 disaster.  It hadn't been a physical fail... my body had done all I could have expected of it, and then some.  I'd gotten some toes to bar, which was a brand spanking new skill for me, and I'd cleaned 95 pounds without difficulty.  If someone had told me, 30 seconds before the WOD started, that I was going to get a score of 16, I would have been totally stoked about it.  I had no number in my head going into this, no expectations to be met.  I'd done everything right leading up to this WOD.  So why did it feel so utterly horrible?

Deep down, I knew why.  It was because I'd had a chance to do something epic, and I'd dropped the ball.

Going into this WOD, I wasn't sure how the weight would feel, how my T2B would work out, whether I'd get out of single digits... whether I'd even have a score to submit.  But once I got started, and everything felt amazing, I wanted more.  I wanted to keep going, to keep succeeding, to keep having the badass penguin feeling.  And I honestly think I could have.  But when I hit a rough patch and stumbled, instead of getting my shit together and pushing forward, I lost focus, and then lost control of my emotions.  When the moment came to man up or give up, I panicked.  And for me, that's about the same as giving up.  When given the opportunity to finally overcome my crazy brain and do something awesome, I failed.  For once, I wasn't upset about the score... I was upset about how I'd gotten it.  Physically, 13.4 was a huge win, and I'd exceeded all of my expectations.  But mentally and emotionally, I'd let myself down.

After I was all cried out, I pulled myself together as much as I could, and made myself go back inside.  Maybe I couldn't be the badass, regal, graceful penguin today... but perhaps there was still some grace to be found.  There was grace in getting over myself, going back into the box, and cheering on my friends the way they'd cheered for me, no matter how utterly cheerless I was actually feeling.  I needed to at least do that.

And I'm so glad I did, because I got to see something truly and completely badass: my friend Pam got her first ever 95lb clean and jerk during 13.4.  In fact, she didn't just get one... she got 9!  It was amazing and very emotional to watch, and I'm so glad I didn't miss it because I was too busy pouting in a dark corner.  She cried after her WOD, too... but hers were happy tears.  And very well-deserved ones.  Pam is definitely a badass penguin, and has officially staked her claim on the good rock for many WODs to come.

SO BADASS!!!

I spent the rest of the morning at the box, cheering on my friends as they tackled 13.4 (everyone else killed it, I'm pleased to report) and suffering through the Miracle Mile for Primal Mayhem.  But nothing could quite shake the feelings of failure and disappointment that had set up shop inside my head.

As much as I wanted to go home and sulk in the privacy of my bedroom, my CrossFitting adventures for the day had just begun.  Several months ago, I had been invited by a friend to attend a lifting clinic with Daniel Bell, an awesome Olympic lifting coach.  I had eagerly accepted, knowing that my technique is still laughably bad on several of my lifts.  So instead of going home to pout, I headed from the box to another box: Laura, an amazing CrossFitter and fellow bridesmaid in Layne's wedding, has created PRossFit in her garage, and it is pretty much the coolest thing I have ever seen.  I am so thankful that she invited me to be a part of this experience... not only do I need all the help I can get, but a day of learning, lifting, and good friends was a perfect distraction from the dark places in which my brain was trying to hide.  Laura, Layne, Jeannie, Julie, and myself (along with another woman who I'd never met but who impressed the hell out of me with her ridiculous strength) spent 4 hours being coached, working on technique, laughing about inappropriate snatch-related comments, and learning way more than one would think possible in such a short time span.  I had attended another one of Mr. Bell's clinics back in September, a mere week after my Elements graduation, but it had been a much bigger group, and since I'd gone in knowing nothing at all about Olympic lifts, it was all a little overwhelming.  This time, I had a (somewhat) broader knowledge base going in, and the small group allowed for a lot of personal attention for everyone.  Not only did I learn a lot from working with Dan, but also from watching some of my favorite people do some flawless and really big lifts.  (My friends are definitely badass penguins.)  And while I was intimidated by the prospect of being watched and judged by some of the most awesome CrossFitting ladies I know, I should have known better than to assume that there would be judgement.  Everyone was helpful and encouraging, and despite my downtrodden mood, I found myself enjoying the clinic immensely.  I feel like I made a lot of progress.  I also feel like it made me love my friends more than ever, because they put up with my obnoxious poutiness all day without kicking me in the ass, which is what I probably deserved.

I worked a 12-hour shift that night, during which we were too busy for me to really think much about the events of the day.  When I came home yesterday morning, I went straight back into pout mode.  (I usually put a 24-hour cap on my pity parties, but since I lost 12 hours to work, I decided to make an exception in this case.)  Took a nap instead of taking a run, felt so crappy about that when I woke up that I opened a bottle of wine, and you know the rest.  Pout city all evening long. 

Which brings us to today.  I'm not entirely sure where my head is right now.  I know that, eventually, I'll be able to look back at 13.4 and be able to see it for the win that it was.  Thanks to this week, I can now do this:

And this:

And that, my friends, is huge.  It's progress.  It's something I didn't have before, and now I do, because the Open pushed me to work harder and dream bigger.  One of these days, I'll be able to say that, and write it, and fully believe it.  I'm not there yet, but I will be.  For now, all I can really do is learn from my mistake, try to shake it off, and focus on 13.5.

I've learned so much about my mental game, and all of the ways I can improve it.  Now, I have to put it into practice, and that's easier said than done.  Maybe I'm not the kind of person who is always going to be Suzie Sunshine after every WOD... maybe I will always be hard on myself.  Maybe that isn't going to change with time or enlightenment.  And maybe that's okay.  Perhaps it's okay to always want more than you gave... to pout a little... to cry when you need to... to never quite be satisfied, to expect better of yourself, even if better isn't necessarily possible.  Maybe that's what drives people to be great.  Or maybe that's just one of the many things that makes me the awkward penguin instead of the badass one.  Hard to say.  I'll let you know when I figure it out.  In the meantime... I have one more week of the Open to focus on.  And I have a feeling that 13.5 just might be my undoing.  But as always, I will try my best, no matter what it is.  (Pull ups are coming... pull ups are definitely coming.  And guess who still doesn't have one?).  And when this is all over, I will be able to look back on everything I've learned, everything I've gained, and everything I've accomplished as a result of being a part of this thing... and something tells me, when it's all said and done, that the good stuff will be more than enough to outweigh the tears and frustration and failures.  So for now, I'm holding on to that thought.  It's a good one.