“You kicked ass today.”
Somehow, I couldn’t help but agree with this assessment, despite the fact that I had finished today’s WOD several MINUTES after everyone else. Yet again.
It wasn’t exactly a surprising turn of events. Any workout that requires a total of 150 pushups is not my kind of thing. My poor little arms, which can easily yank a hundred pounds from the floor and shoot it over my head, quail at the prospect of hefting my 145 pound body off the ground over, and over, and over, and over, and over, and over again.
But I love this. I love that you can finish dead last and still have kicked ass, that ass kickage is measured in shaking limbs and pools of sweat. And man was I sweating today—even compared with the other sweaty, disgusting people I worked out with over lunch. I was EVEN MORE disgusting. Quite an accomplishment, if I do say so myself.
It’s just beginning to dawn on me that these lunchtime WODs are going to make me smell worse and worse as the weather warms up. But I couldn’t care less.
A while back, a friend informed me that the secret to having a really fantastic day was just to squeeze a CrossFit WOD in there somewhere. “You spend the first half of the day looking forward to the WOD and the second half feeling like a total badass.”
The problem now, of course, is that I don’t know how to get through my day without one.
Lunch-break crossfitting ensues whenever I have to schedule something else after work. It’s not entirely feasible now that the office isn’t two seconds away from the box, but since when has feasibility ever stopped me from attempting something? From doing things, sure, but not from THINKING I can do them.
I wrote before about the difficulty of getting to CrossFit after work in a timely manner (and without breaking too many traffic laws). But that process doesn’t hold a candle to the craziness of trying to get from work to CrossFit and then BACK TO WORK, all during my lunch break. As I was speeding back to the office this afternoon, well after my hour was over, I realized why I am the ONLY person at the box who ever seems to attempt this: probably because I am the only person who is disgusting enough to put up with it. While blasting my car’s air conditioning in a futile attempt to dry my soaking wet hair, it dawned on me that I was fighting a losing battle. I couldn’t possibly dry the sweat, because I had changed clothes at such lightning speed that I was STILL sweating. I redirected the AC to blow on my armpits instead, reflecting that gray was an unwise color choice for my shirt today, and distractedly spilled the protein shake I was trying in inhale down my shirt.
I turned up at work 15 minutes late, in a shirt that was only partially dry and hair that was still soaked through, with chalk on my hands and something mysteriously sticky all over my boobs. I don’t think anyone at work was even remotely fooled about where I’d been. I don’t think they ever are. I don’t really care. It’s worth it. I look like a hot mess, but I feel like a total badass.