I’m one week away from the finish line, and I feel incredible. Well, sort of. I spent my evening glued to the toilet and violently vomiting for four hours with what I think is the stomach flu, but hey. Flu aside, I’m crushing it.
Last Friday, for time, I completed 21, 15, and 9 reps of biking for calories and thrusters at 55 pounds, then 15, 12, and 9 reps rowing for calories and hanging power cleans at 55 pounds, then 12, 9, and 6 reps of lateral hops over the barbell and overhead squats at 35 pounds. I finished in 27:20. Then I ordered takeout.
I’ve never been a snacker. As a child, I generally avoided chips, crackers, and popcorn, and, surprisingly, I wasn’t fond of candy. I preferred cheese-based foods (artificial or otherwise), and actual, decadent dessert. Like Velveeta and crème brûlée. Or a maple-glazed doughnut with custard.
It was a successful first week. I lost four pounds (which I suspect has more to do with water and weigh-in times than actual fat loss), increased my skeletal muscle mass by a tiny 0.2 lb., and decreased my body fat percentage by 1.5%. After a disciplined week of eating piles of vegetables and performing challenging workouts, those numbers were nice to see.
It’s January, and true to New Year’s call for resolution, I’m embarking on a 10-week fitness journey prompted by Lake State CrossFit, in partnership with Complete Nutrition, and despite my general disdain for the millions of people who believe January 1st is the only time to get healthy.
Eleanor Roosevelt is often credited with advising “do one thing every day that scares you,” but it was Mary Schmich, a columnist for the Chicago Tribune, who penned that exact phrase in her article aimed at students on the brink of graduation. I agree with everything she offers, including the bit about scaring yourself, save for her frequency. Because the truth is, if I forced that kind of stress on my heart each day, I’d already be dead.
Two years ago, a former colleague slam-dunked a job opening in my inbox, told me to apply, and winked. She quit for the same reasons I needed to, and her gesture was a last-ditch effort to help push me toward an exit while she made her own.
Praise pussy for that woman, for the blessing she bestowed upon me resulted in (spoiler) a new job. And lo! it is good.
I turned 27 years old this morning at 6:49 a.m., and it feels really damn good. So good, in fact, that I hardly scoffed at the torrential downpour that completely soaked my pants on my walk to my office. The cards and daisies that littered my desk made up for it.
About this time last year, I was busy grinding on a frat boy, barefoot, in a $400 ball gown. If you were looking for me, I apologize—I lost track of my phone, my shoes, and my gin and tonics. It was a productive night. Continue Reading