Effing CrossFit Workouts

So with my amazing workout that I’ve been doing (ran twice in the morning last week, put that in your pipe and smoke it), when M asked if I wanted to work out with him today, I was all for it. Thought I would show him how in shape I am now.

Things didn’t go quite as I had hoped.

Let me start from the beginning. He and I were at the same party for his friends’ going away do last night. (They all loved me more than him). I drank way more beer than I had originally planned, what with all the flip cup playing, the need to drink away the awkwardness I feel when I know very few people in the room, and the great taste of Bud Light Lime.

Anyway, I felt so skinny when I woke up this morning, which I attributed, again, to my awesome workout regime. Granted, it could have been the dehydration from drinking, but I prefer to think it’s the former.

Off we go to the track at a local high school (which, by the way, is so nice. We certainly got jipped in the athletics department at our high school). I was pretty excited to get started as I was wearing my new, pretty running shoes. I ran a little on the track and could feel a breeze ON MY FEET. It was so cool (pun not intended but kind of funny anyway).

Our workout was as follows: 400m run, 50 squats, 400m run, 40 lunges, 400m run, 30 burpees, 400m run, 20 pushups.

M’s was different. I don’t know what he did between the runs but it looked pretty difficult.

“Ready, set, go.” And we’re off! I start at a great pace in my pretty shoes (M also got new shoes. I think they’re pretty. I don’t think he appreciates that description). I was feeling great.

Apparently M didn’t think it necessary to run alongside me so we could chat and laugh about our day. He was about 100m ahead of me about 5 seconds into the run.

Fine.

Now, you have to realize that this boy loves himself so much (or is just really proud of his hard work) that he always, without fail, works out without his shirt on. Today was no exception. Thank God he isn’t my sister, because if I had an older sister in as good of shape as M, I would seriously consider eating myself into oblivion. Seriously, I could see his muscles even when he was 200m ahead of me. Like, come on. Put a shirt on (for any ladies that read this and are interested, he is not single. So back off).

I ran the first 400m in under 2 minutes. And then it just went downhill from there.

“Bella! Run!” I got yelled at a LOT as I walked around the track.

“You run.” My comebacks are pretty awesome.

“Cut out the pushups.”

“Can I cut out the burpees?!”

“No.”

God dammit.

I thought that “cutting out the pushups” (which I can do a hell of a lot better than burpees) meant also cutting out the run that went with them. Found that out the hard way. I may have blacked out.

“One more run.”

*gasping for air* “WHAT?”

If Running Doesn't Kill Me...

I started my running program today. And by running program I mean I just started running in the morning. There’s no program. I basically just go until I want to stop and then walk for a bit.

It’s pretty well thought out.

I’ve never been able to get up early – I’m just not a morning person. Thing is, I’m also not a night exerciser, either. I just don’t want to do physical activity that isn’t going to get me immediate results, such as walking to the bar to drink myself into believing that I’m freakin’ gorgeous.

Seeing as how I collapse on my bed every evening after work after talking myself out of working out all day, I figured that a morning run would be the lesser of two evils. I set my alarm for 610 and jumped out of bed, ready to face the world.

Actually, I really had to use the bathroom. I just didn’t let myself flop back into my bed as per usual.

I even bought a new workout bra from Lululemon. That’s how serious I am about this. And I lost my other one.

The air was stagnant outside, and it was already hot. I have the lung capacity of a 2 year old (self-diagnosed), so I wasn’t anticipating an Olympic worthy run. I was, however, anticipating being able to completely run the route I had set out.

Armed with my iPhone and my old running shoes, I took off down the street in a light jog, feeling great about my ability to actually get out of bed.

I didn’t feel so great about my ability to run after I started walking about a minute or two later.

Hm. I’m in worse shape than I thought.

Even my angst filled workout playlist couldn’t keep me going, despite the loud, slightly concerning lyrics of Godsmack’s “I Fucking Hate You” pumping through my ear phones.

I’ve tried to run to Top 40 songs. The happy beats and sunny attitudes of Katy Perry and Kelly Clarkson make me want to punch someone in the mouth. I much prefer heavy tracks that mirror my own anger as I participate in a physical activity that I don’t even enjoy.

I have to say, though, that it was a nice start to the day and, after I took out my earphones, the quiet morning and birds chirping was actually…relaxing.

That’s not to say that I’m going to start getting up at 5am to complete hour long runs, but I may be able to keep this regime up for a while.

Or at least until my body realizes what I’m doing and stages a protest when I try to drag it out of bed.

It’s only a matter of time.

The Art of Belly Dancing

E and I vowed to start eating better and exercising. Then she caught me at the dollar store buying candy. So the eating better part isn’t going so well. We did, however, sign up for belly dancing lessons.

We’re not sure why we did it, either.

The brochure advocates its health benefits while being a “low impact” workout, yet I sweat so much that it looks I’ve run a marathon at the end, and all we’re doing is shaking our hips. I am in such good shape.

E is probably the best person to do the class with, though, as she doesn’t take herself too seriously and can have a laugh at how ridiculous we look. And, believe me, we do.

Case in point: I hunch over and shake my legs during the hip shimmy. E punches the air. E yells out in the class in enthusiasm, only to realize that no one else is cheering with her. Including me. And we both run into each other as we glide (read: march) around the room and then laugh hysterically to each other. Who needs a teacher? We basically run the class with our hilarity.

We do, however, have a teacher, who I’m fairly certain is high every time she comes to class (in a belly baring top, no less), which is further evidenced as she tells us to feel our fat and let it jiggle. Um, there is a reason why I am in an exercise class. It’s to get rid of the jiggle. I’d rather not let it go and risk taking out the fragile looking girl beside me whose waist is the size of my leg.

I knew we were in for an interesting ride when our teacher asked us to sweep the air with our arm, bringing it down across our faces and towards our vaginas. Yes, vaginas. I was seriously concerned that “belly dancing” was a new found term to disguise “lesbian support group” and that we were going to have to start inspecting our own hoohas and comparing them to each other’s.

That, thank God, was not the case. But the number of times in class that she mentions anything to do with lady parts is seriously disconcerting…

Perhaps boxing would have been a more appropriate choice.