Fan-fucking-tastic. If you say it really fast, it almost sounds like an actual word. Fanfuckingtastic. I had a friend in college who used to say this all the time. Abso-fucking-lutely was another favorite of hers. I could never quite pull it off. These creative compound words always sounded a bit awkward coming from me, no matter how slyly I tried to slip them into a conversation. I wasn’t averse to colorful language; by that point, Roomie (did I ever mention that we were also roommates freshman year of college?) had already educated my blonde country ass on how to speak fluent sailor. No, I think my problem was that I could never muster the appropriate amount of sarcasm to really pull these words off.
Because, of course, fan-fucking-tastic means exactly the opposite of its original, less colorful, counterpart. Like, if you asked someone how their exam went, and they said, fanfuckingtastic thanks very much, you knew to leave the subject well alone after that.
I feel like I have finally accumulated the proper amount of rage and all around bad humor necessary to pull it off. Friends, my last week was, to put it very precisely, fan-fucking-tastic. You can’t tell, because I’m writing instead of talking, but just know that THIS time, I pulled it off. And it was beautifully done, if I do say so myself.
The reason for my general misery is due mostly to a boring combination of bad weather, work, and some extremely drawn-out flu-like symptoms. But that would make for a really crappy blog post. So let me tell you about the somewhat unintelligent decision that started my week off in the wrong direction.
If you have already been sick for the better part of a month and, instead of getting better, seem only to be getting sicker, going to an out-of-town crossfit competition may not be the best medicine. I wish somebody would have beaten me over the head this obvious fact, but I suspect I just didn’t ask the right people. You tend to get biased opinions when most of your friends are crossfitters.
L’s friend Katie had kindly invited us to stay with her the night before the competition, so we didn’t have to stay at a hotel or get up inhumanly early. It sounded like a fun plan at the time. But I remember complaining to Doc (Remember Doc? Of the shoulder injury last April. Yup, I still make him put me back together on a regular basis.) the night before we left that having to spend the weekend with all these people was going to be a lot of WORK. Ugh. I’d have to, like, talk to them and stuff.
I’m not usually right about much (though I will never admit this if you get into an argument with me), but it turns out I was right about this one. Total failure. But I hear that’s healthy for you. Or something. Please tell me that’s true.
I did not sleep on Friday night because I am an insomniac. Saturday morning, I consumed enough caffeine to resuscitate a sleeping zombie, which still didn’t REALLY make me feel much better, and then I proceeded to have an asthma and/or panic attack during the first wod. At any rate, I could not breath, and the cardio wod that would have been my weakness anyway quickly turned into the WORST EIGHT MINUTES OF MY LIFE.
Afterward, I gasped my way back over to my inhaler and then, like the tough and beastly crossfit machine that I am, burst into tears. I don’t think anybody quite knew how to deal with me at that point. I had forbidden L, on previous occasions, to tell me “good job” when it clearly had not been, and crying women are simply not Coach’s forte. The task of piecing me back together enough to get me through the next two wods fell to my dear friend Michelle, who, now that I think about it, was the one who had to do that the LAST time I had a mental breakdown at one of these things. The poor girl is probably going to check that I’m not going before she signs up for her next competition.
Eventually, I DID get myself together enough to drag my sickly ass through the next two workouts, which, thank the Gods, involved little-or-no cardio. Problem was, I was only JUST holding it together. So everyone would see me not crying and think it was safe to have a conversation with me. Those conversations inevitably went like this:
Helpful friend: “Oh, are you feeling better now?”
Anna: (reminded about feeling badly) “Umm, not really?” Starts crying again. Thinks, What the heck is wrong with me?! but is too busy crying now to communicate this thought.
Later that afternoon, after just such a conversation, one of my friends asked if I wouldn’t like some Motrin and cough drops. Motrin changed my life. Or at least my life on that particular day. I was still bummed about having done so dreadfully that morning, but I no longer felt like the world was going to end because of it. Also my throat didn’t hurt anymore, so I could talk again. I celebrated my extreme gain in composure by tracking down most of the people I had cried on earlier and babbling on about how sorry I was for behaving like an enormous boob. There were a lot of people to track down. I’m sure I missed a few, but I was trying, people!
So, yes, life lessons (this seems like a life-lessons sort of post): if your day is going poorly, try taking some drugs.
No? Not good? I’ll stop talking now.