I did the open WOD twice again this week. I know, I know, I vaguely recall swearing that, after 13.1, I was never, ever, going to do that again. But my attitude going into this was so different, it doesn’t really count. It all started when I saw toes to bar in this week’s WOD on Wednesday night. Fuck. Toes to bar. I would rather it have been pull-ups, and that’s saying something if you have any idea how bad I am at pull ups.
I have short little fingers. They’re REALLY short. Dawn, everyone’s adopted CrossFit mom, thinks they’re the funniest thing ever and likes to call them fetus fingers; since I love Dawn, I’m okay with this. But I prefer to think that they are like cute little sausages. Cute little sausages that have trouble holding up my, ah, not-insignificant body weight. So I figured I was going to be doing my toes to bar about two at a time, and not beating anybody in particular, or possibly anybody at all. And suddenly my score didn’t matter anymore.
What a relief. It didn’t matter if I did it twice, or if I did it six times between Wednesday and Sunday. It was just another WOD, and I was just going to muddle through it the best I could manage while trying not to slip off the bar and land on my butt. So, when L suggested we just do both WODs on Thursday night, I was like, “Why not? After all, one of them is only seven minutes long.”
But we obviously weren’t going to miss out on Saturday’s weekly party after the open. I mean, when have I EVER passed up food? Really. Is that even a question? And if I was going to go on Saturday, I was definitely going to work out. I can’t be expected to sit still for that long.
When I did the first open WOD twice, I planned ahead for round two like it was my job. I took it easy and didn’t work out at all the day before, I endlessly practiced my technique for the required lift, and I was absolutely determined to get at least ONE MORE REP. I might even have lost some sleep over it. And in the end, of course, I didn’t get one more rep. Or one less rep. Everyone was incredibly amazed that I somehow managed to scrape EXACTLY the same score. They all congratulated me on being so consistent. I just grumbled and mumbled and was generally pretty cranky about it.
This time, I made no such sacrifices prior to Saturday. I went all out in Friday night’s workout and readily agreed to meet L at the park Saturday morning to run six and a half miles with her. (Though I might not have agreed so quickly if I’d realized the mountainous hills she planned to torture me with.) I showed up at the box with sore shoulders and knees that were just about seizing up after my run. I fully expected to get a lower score than my first attempt had earned me, and I was okay with that.
But no. Folks, I got EXACTLY THE SAME SCORE. Again.
I’m a freaking machine. I’m not a particularly well-oiled, speedy type of machine. Not the high-tech, useful kind you really want to have around. But I sure can churn out mediocre to average numbers with mechanical consistency. Last time I may have grumbled and mumbled when I realized what my score was, but this time I couldn’t stop laughing.
There’s no moral to this story. Sometimes, life is incredibly hilarious. I couldn’t have done this if I’d tried.