When you hear the word “jogger” most of us have an image of a sweaty guy in a vest running on a road somewhere. Some of us are even able to conjure a whole video sequence of a fresh-faced, luscious girl who’s running through a park with a light breeze ruffling her blond hair, dressed in yoga pants and a crop-top that’s barely containing the bouncing twins. And those of you who didn’t see that initially, do know.
It’s my new thing. I’m semi-obsessed with it. I’m not sure why. It’s extremely tough, opens the floodgates of every pore in your body and increase your cursing vocabulary. Halfway through a workout you look like a wet, wild, panting, deranged lunatic who will probably kill anyone who dares to strike up a conversation. Only to end up feeling like a million bucks afterwards. The “thing” is called crossfit and I consider myself to be a cross-fit wannabe as I still don’t have a body that looks good in a vest nor do I consider myself an expert of this training regime. But there are three things I know, (1) I feel stronger (2) I feel fitter and (3) I love it.
I’ve been battling to throw off a couple of pounds that’s stubbornly sticking to the mid section like a sloth to a tree. I’ve weighed my options and concluded that weight training alone might not be sufficient anymore. I’ve reached an age where my metabolism has given up on life. It’s apparent that I have to include some form of eating plan and cardio in my daily routine, if only to combat the consumption of wine.
I consider myself to be a mild sufferer from Adult ADHD. It’s one of those things that makes me appealing. I also have grey hair, stand 6″4′ in my shoes and have an amazing sense of humour due to the fact that I’ve seen my own reflection. I’m not just claiming to have a mental condition because I hate doing arbitrary stuff (if arbitrary stuff is defined as anything) around the house, I actually get bored very quickly. Therefore I am in desperate need of diversity, action, excitement, change and chaos in my life. Coincidentally it’s the same reasons for loving my teenage kids and also why I cannot imagine myself spending 40 minutes on a treadmill.
Before I discovered Crossfit, I did consider a few other cardio related options like:
- Running – but who really wants to do it, if you own a car?
- Cycling – but who really wants to wear pants that reveals whether I’m Jewish or not? (sorry Chris!)
- Aerobics – but what man really looks good in neon coloured ski-pants and/or headbands?
- Kickboxing – but who really wants to do air-karate to music?
- Spinning – but who really wants to sit in a cramped space and smell body-odour of 10 other random strangers?
After finding enough excuses, it was settled, I will never have a six-pack. Then I found a crossfit workout (the lingo is WOD for those who are uninformed) in some men’s health magazine. It might have been the actual Men’s Health Magazine. I was intrigued, captivated. If only for the female model squatting in the spread. I understand that crossfit is nothing new and it’s probably been around much longer than that thing that used to be a sandwich in my drawer. But seriously, this is what caught my eye:
- A lot of the WOD’s are based on twenty minute workouts.
- You don’t need to be a specific level of fitness to start.
- You can do it on your own.
- You can challenge yourself constantly by setting your own goals.
- If you’re really good you can compete internationally.
- You may eventually end up with a body that’s a better version of the one you have now.
- All the benchmark WOD’s are named after girls, like Angie, Cindy, Fran, Isabel and Nancy. (Why do these sound like the names of drag queens?)
I’ve been doing Crossfit for a month now and as stated before, I’m hooked. Line and sinker. I have to admit that I hate myself whilst I’m doing it and I regret any normal activity because of it (including but not limited too walking, sitting, typing and talking), but I still can’t stop. It might be because I’m stubborn. Or stupid. Or both. I reckon my recent visit to the department of Home Affairs are partly to blame, as I’ve never fully recovered from the trauma of that experience. (I will proceed in blaming that event for every bad decision I make for the rest of my life.)
There is one thing about the whole crossfit subculture that boggles my mind a bit and that would be the fetish of naming WOD’s after girls. As always, I’ve opted to give you my own reasons for this weirdness:
- It only takes a man twenty minutes with the right girl to know he’s whipped.
- Most men have little or no energy after fighting with a girl for twenty minutes.
- Anything that makes you sweat for twenty minutes and leaves you satisfied with a smile on your face deserves to have woman’s name.
- Only a woman have the power of leaving a man utterly exhausted after a focused twenty minute interaction of any kind.
So how about it…Crossfit anyone?
at the office over the weekend, so instead of doing something constructive, like fixing the irrigation system that’s annoying the shit out of me, ’cause now I have to actually get up and move the sprinkler around, whereas I could just turn a valve, I opted to dip my pen in the ink of my imagination and completed another entry for the weekly flash fiction competition, run by AdHocfiction. (Phew, that’s a long sentence!)
The editors made my day by featuring my entry as an option for this week’s voters choice. Again. I am flattered. I should be happy. As a matter of fact, I should be jumping for joy but due to my recent crossfit regime I’m hurting too much to sit properly, never mind jumping. (By the way, I found it interesting that I’ve never felt my lats before which is the muscles on the sides of your back that will scream wild agony after doing a 100 pull ups.)
Now just imagine if I could win? It’s probably as unlikely as me being able to walk ten steps without falling against a wall anytime soon.
Anyhow, the prompt word was “crop“.
Dancing flames reflecting in his sad eyes, standing in front of the huge fireplace, rubbing his hands. Snowflakes melting in the glow of, what used to be, their favourite place in the house.
She didn’t say anything when she answered the door. He was actually surprised to be let in. The chill of winter has nothing on the coldness that exist between them now.
Without an “hello”, she instructed him to wait whilst Robyn gets her stuff. Then she turned her back and left him alone like that fateful morning, eight months ago.
He looks at the photos on the mantel. There’s nothing left of their life together. Then he sees the photo of Robyn and her mother. An old familiar photo placed in a new frame.
She must have learned how to “crop”, as the only thing left in this print was part of his arm, holding them both.
Maybe I’ll try again. Pull ups I mean.