When I get down on my performance, I need to remind myself I’m wearing a 17-lb weight vest. Rx+!
Now, who wants to tie my shoes? #nosrsly
I have food issues. Have since I was little.
And I mean both emotional and physical.
Somewhere in my youth, I developed the coping skill of eating when I was sad, or mad, or jealous, or bored, or lonely, and then later—why not?—any other time an hour or three before my body asked for food. Been reading books and therapizing for a long time to deal with the problem, and I’ve had some success. Some painfully slow and marginal success.
Regarding the physical stuff, well, I’m not the world’s astutest at drawing a line between Cause and Effect. Here’s a conversation I had with my mom, after I graduated from college, about my lifetime noxious gas problem:
Me: I think maybe Cheerios don’t agree with me.
Mom: Yeah? Why’s that?
Me: 'Cause I fart a lot after I eat them. But not after I eat Grape-Nuts.
Mom: Hm. Probably has more to do with the amount of milk you consume with each. Maybe you’re lactose intolerant. What about when you eat cheese or ice cream, that kind of stuff?
Awhile back, I stopped eating gluten on the advice of my physician, and my years-long chronic fatigue went away. Now we’re learning that gluten might not be the problem—it may be some other element of wheat. And/or, as I’m sort of figuring out right now, it might be things associated with wheat that I’m eating or not eating.
For example, when I ate gluten on a regular basis, I ate gluten on a regular basis. I rarely ate meat protein. It’s very possible that I was anemic, and that was what caused my sleepies.
In addition, gluten-y products often contain a bunch of sugar, and I’m gathering a whole lot of evidence that I’m sugar-sensitive. Could be I had The Sugar-Grog*.
Probably it’s a combination of those things.
Since I’ve been pregnant, all my food weirdness has been exacerbated—my sons don’t dig dairy
and sugar gets all weird in my mouth and throat, and I feel like it coats my veins and blech blech blech.
So, I’ve been trying to lay off. Especially before dinner.
But icky gross feeling.
But mmmmmmmm, sugarrrrrrrrrr.
Anyway, Sunday morning I made some pancakes, like this: Smash a banana, beat 2 eggs, add 2 tablespoons gluten-free flour, 1/4 teaspoon each of baking soda and baking powder, and a generous spraaaankle of cinnamon. Melt butter in a skillet, and cook them sumbitches**.
And I put fresh blueberries on top. (Fresh blueberries make me happy. They make me do all the early ’90s dances in my kitchen.)
And I tasted them like that, and they were all right.
But gross in my throat and veins.
But nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn. Stomp, stomp, stomp.
I just wanted a little more sweetness, you know?
But I also knew it would make me feel real bad. For the rest of the day.
And it occurred to me: Stop wanting the sweetness. That’s it. Stop wanting it. I know about a 1/4-teaspoon’s worth of Zen Buddhism, but what I do know is that one of the tenets says our suffering is caused by our desires. Let go of the desire and there is no suffering***.
Anyhow, I just ate the pancakes without syrup. And you know what happened? I tasted all the other awesome fucking flavors in the fucking pancakes. Egg. Banana. Cinnamon. Bluuuuuuuuueberry. Those are some delicious fucking flavors.
And hey, you know, file under Tiny Victories, and take with a grain of salt, because I’ve done this for three whole breakfasts. (This morning, with peaches! Mmmm-mmm.) But I’ll keep trying.
Maybe you guys try too? See what happens. Give up wanting something that you know doesn’t work for your body. (Don’t just give up the thing; give up wanting it.) Just one time. You might be all, GROSS, LIFE WITHOUT [THING THAT MAKES ME FEEL BAD] IS NOT WORTH LIVING, and I get that.
But you might just taste cinnamon as if for the first time.
*Not a scientific term—THE FAT CROSSFITTER IS NOT, AND HAS NEVER CLAIMED TO BE, A SCIENTIST.
**I don’t know if this is a recipe—THE FAT CROSSFITTER IS NOT, AND HAS NEVER CLAIMED TO BE, A COOKER PERSON.
***Or something—THE FAT CROSSFITTER IS NOT, AND HAS NEVER CLAIMED TO BE, A THEOLOGIAN.
Me: front view / side view
Redford the Dog: sleepy view / moar sleepy view
WOD (my own programming in italics)
Skill: Turkish Get-Ups
Sixteen days. The only thing I’ve lifted in the last 16 days is forkfuls of carbs to my pie-hole.
See, first I was going through some difficult shit (scroll down to the June 17th post titled “Jujubes” and read back upward, if you don’t want spoilers), and I didn’t really want to talk about it with anyone, so I was hiding in my hidey-hole.
Then my dad and I set off on a trip, and I was once again 11 miles by ferry from the closest CrossFit. I could’ve done some overhead walking lunges with a cinder block like last year, but instead mostly I just walked my dogs and cried and read books. And ate pie.
My sister kept making pies.
Point is, this is the longest break I’ve taken, by a long shot, in nearly four years of CrossFit. And in this moment, I’m feeling less-than-inclined to go back.
I know, I know—
—but dudes, I’m 22 weeks pregnant, it’s 94 degrees out, and the other day, I got winded making my bed.
Now listen, I do my very best to make you laugh or think, or to inspire you. What you may not realize is that you’ns make it way easier to keep hauling my substantial ass to the gym. So would you do that now for me? Would you say something, or post a picture, or send me some voodoo, that’ll help me go lift a thing?
Thank you, my shweeties.
A long-term study of more than 3,600 seniors found that more muscle mass was a better predictor of survival than was moderate body mass index. Christopher Intagliata reports
LIFT HEAVY SHIT, DIE LATER. FUCK YEAH.
My gym had a yoga-mobility class this afternoon. As we went around the room and introduced ourselves, I announced that I would probably be quitting part-way through. At the end of the class, someone said, “You didn’t quit!”
I said, “Oh, I quit multiple times.”
I just decided each time to start again.
Thinking you’re doing a 12-minute tabata and being stopped after 12 rounds is the CrossFit equivalent of having an item at the counter to purchase and being told by the clerk it’s actually on sale.
There were several reasons I didn’t sign up for the powerlifting seminar being held at my gym a few weekends ago. Two of them are in my uterus. One of them was, Ugh, that sounds heavy. Another was because I’d seen videos online of the coach yelling at/cheering on his participants. [Edit: This was a visiting coach, not one of the staff at my gym.]
Now, I’m not crazy about being yelled at/cheered on while exercising—makes me feel self-conscious—but I can dig the occasional GET IT, or BEAST, or (my favorite when in the bottom of a squat) STAND UP.
But this coach, who by all other accounts is knowledgeable and effective, would say stuff like, “YOU’RE LIFTING LIKE A LITTLE GIRL.”
Sorry-not-sorry, if you say, “You’re lifting like a little girl,” that’s some asinine shit. I mean, yes, little girls are weak. But that’s because they’re little.
You know who else is weak? Little boys. Because they’re little.
This guy is also known to call people pussies.
WheredoIstart wheredoIstart wheredoIstart…?
I guess I could start with, That’z misogyny, but eh, kind of boring, right? Like you all came to the internet for 3 credits of Women’s Studies.
I could go with, That’z not even right. There are some pussy-proprietors in my gym who lift way more than a lot of the dudes. Shit, I’m female, fat, and currently on stork watch, and I was jerking more than some of the guys around me last week. But then people are going to start commenting that in general women are weaker blar blar blar notthefuckingpoint.
I could go with, That’z not motivational. I can’t imagine a guy being like, “What’d he just call me? A pussy? OH HELL NO, I’M GONNA LIFT MOAR THAN I EVER HAVE BEFORE TO SHOW THAT OTHER DUDE I DON’T HAVE A VAGINA. MY GENITALS ARE NOT EVEN AMBIGUOUS. I HAVE A PENIS AND TESTICLES AND WILL PROVE IT BY LIFTING THIS BARBELL IN THAT OTHER DUDE’S PRESENCE.”
(If you are a guy that thinks that way,
So, instead I think I’ll go with, That’z played the fuck out. Just like Bandana Training’s sorry “joke”, a man calling another man (or a woman) a pussy is stupid and boring and not original. How long have men been calling each other girls/ladies as an insult? Probably since the Pleistocene era. And that’s still the best you can come up with? Sad.
Tell them they lift like a grape. Ask if they’re a muppet or a man. I don’t know—something else, please.
I propose a new rule: You shan’t be allowed to call somebody a pussy or tell them they just got their vagina handed to them unless you have one.
Because, in that context, it’s still funny. Because we, The Havers, are in on the joke. No, we own the joke. (Of course I’m talking about using these words in jest—no matter what chromosomes you got dealt, if you use them as an insult or threat, you need higher education and/or therapy and/or etiquette lessons.)
Listen, I like to walk by the scale at the gym when a super-fit person is weighing himself and say, “Are you fat?”
Because (1) he’s clearly not, and (2) I clearly am.
If either of the above were not true, my comment is no longer funny; I’m just an asshole. Context is everything, friends.
All right, I’m done. Now the internet trolls (probably those poor, oppressed MRAs) get to come out and whine about how I’m wrong and stupid and what a waste of time this post is.
And to them I say, GO CHANGE YOUR KOTEX.
(See? I can say that because I’m a tampon consumer.)
My fingers feel cheesy on this keyboard, but I’m compelled to write you a letter anyway. Here goes.
Run 1600 m
300 air squats
I was going to do the WOD today, but I didn’t.
My gym programmed a workout with almost the same exact movements, in high volume, on Saturday, and well, I probably should’ve gone anyway—this workout is nothing compared with the physical feats you took on—but I justified my absence by saying
(a) I’ve done Murph a few times (though always scaled and partnered, naturally);
(b) my yard was in need of attention; and
(c) I’m not a Navy SEAL like you. Shit wears me out.
So I mowed the lawn, and weedate, and pruned a thing, and mulched a flower bed, and planted a rose bush. It was no Hero WOD, but I got real sweaty and stinky and out of breath. I didn’t wear a weight vest, however I’m carrying two avocado-sized humans in my uterus—does that count?
Anyway, while I was out there, I drew a meandering line in my mind connecting your service and sacrifice with the fact that I have the luxury to do those yard tasks on my own property without fear, and the right to do them while wearing a bikini or a burqa, my choice. (As I’m fat and non-Muslim, I chose a sweet stretchy pants/maternity shirt combo.)
What I’m saying is “to honor” means “to hold in great respect”, and I definitely held you in great respect today. I hope it’s cool I chose to honor you in a way other than your namesake exercise protocol. I feel like you’d be cool with it. By all accounts, you were a pretty rad guy.
I’ll continue to honor you. I wish peace to your loved ones, for whom every day is now Memorial Day, and I promise to vote for people who will take care of fallen heroes’ families and veterans who make it back from war alive.