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.
Read the first three bars of Eminem’s “Lose Yourself,” and you’ve essentially just described the precursor to nearly every difficult, uncomfortable conversation you’ll ever have; sweaty palms, weak knees, heavy arms, nerves, vomit. The body’s response to threat of talking is a physiological phenomenon. Because it sucks.
Each December, I compile a list of things to do and accomplish during the upcoming year. Some things are vague and perpetual, some things are oddly specific. Regardless of its contents, its purpose is to encourage new adventures, and spend some quality time galavanting beyond the confines of the comfort zone. Because that’s where growth happens.
Early this week, I stocked my slow-cooker with roast, carrots, celery, onion, broth, and a slew of herbs in preparation to feast like a queen, for no particular reason other than it was Sunday, and it sounded delicious. The timer buzzed two hours later, I lifted the lid, and an aroma most divine sucker-punched my schnoz. It tasted incredible.
Ladies and gentlemen, snag your lip balm and ready your smackers—holiday season is upon us. Between an opportune mistletoe encounter, or a New Year’s Eve spit-swap at the stroke of twelve, there’s something to be said about a powerful peck.