Universe to Naomi: Fuck You
I totally had it coming. Yesterday I was feeling so great. I’ve lost about fifteen pounds since my birthday in September, at least the last time I weighed myself, which was a few weeks ago. The pants I wore to work—embarrassingly tight, last year at this time—were hanging off my hips. I ran 6.2 miles on Sunday. Six. Point. Two. And I felt great when I was done. Like I could get back on the treadmill and run another six. Not that I could run another six, mind you. But I felt like I could.
I was thin. I was strong, I was fucking amazing.
Heh. Then I went to the gym.
It started off all right. I did my “easy” three-mile run in record time. Not world record, I know that. But Naomi-record, and that’s what I’m looking for. When I was done, I wanted to do some weights. Normally I do a body sculpting class on Tuesdays. But this week there was a scary looking, ultra-buff substitute teacher.
I thought about just doing my twenty-minute crafted-especially-for-me weight machine workout. But, hey. I am thin. I am strong. I am fucking amazing. I can take whatever this asshole throws at me.
Hah. Oh, I am so very funny.
This guy’s class. Kicked. My. Ass. And not in a good way.
Just one example, because, frankly, I don’t want to relive too much of the experience.
He wanted us to do 100 push-ups. Three months ago, I could barely do one modified (from the knees) push-up. Now I can do twelve in a row. I think that’s fantastic. I’m not going to be pulling boats with my teeth anytime soon, but who the hell wants to do that anyway (besides Jack Lalane, and he’s crazy).
But this guy was willing to make a deal. He would cut us down to seventy-five (75?!) pushups, if we did alternating sets of ten as full plank push-ups (the rest could be on our knees). That’s not a deal. I can’t do 10 full pushups. And I don’t really feel like trying. Because if I can do twenty modified push-ups, that’d be just dandy with me. You know what? Don’t set impossible goals for me, when you don’t even know me, and when setting a difficult but achievable goal would be so much more productive. You can tell me to do 100 pushups and wait all night. I’m still only going to do twenty or thirty (with some resting). But now, instead of being thrilled with the accomplishment, I just feel crappy for barely doing a quarter of your task.
So I suffered through his whole class, doing a seriously half-assed job, and getting a fraction of the exercise (and fulfillment) I normally do, because I felt dumb leaving (I’d have to walk all around to room to put away my weights, my body bar, my step, etc, etc, etc.)
But then, the icing on my Assday Cake, was that, as I was walking home, sweaty and gross, with an ugly hat on to keep me warm in the arctic cold front, I ran into Mr. Popular Croton boy. A nice guy, someone I’ve known literally my entire life, but one who never fails to bring me back to my middle school insecurities.
Yeah, that was real fun.
It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood, a beautiful day in the neighborhood….
Welcome to my marathon training blog. It’s not all uplifting stories of sunrise epiphanies.
I was thin. I was strong, I was fucking amazing.
Heh. Then I went to the gym.
It started off all right. I did my “easy” three-mile run in record time. Not world record, I know that. But Naomi-record, and that’s what I’m looking for. When I was done, I wanted to do some weights. Normally I do a body sculpting class on Tuesdays. But this week there was a scary looking, ultra-buff substitute teacher.
I thought about just doing my twenty-minute crafted-especially-for-me weight machine workout. But, hey. I am thin. I am strong. I am fucking amazing. I can take whatever this asshole throws at me.
Hah. Oh, I am so very funny.
This guy’s class. Kicked. My. Ass. And not in a good way.
Just one example, because, frankly, I don’t want to relive too much of the experience.
He wanted us to do 100 push-ups. Three months ago, I could barely do one modified (from the knees) push-up. Now I can do twelve in a row. I think that’s fantastic. I’m not going to be pulling boats with my teeth anytime soon, but who the hell wants to do that anyway (besides Jack Lalane, and he’s crazy).
But this guy was willing to make a deal. He would cut us down to seventy-five (75?!) pushups, if we did alternating sets of ten as full plank push-ups (the rest could be on our knees). That’s not a deal. I can’t do 10 full pushups. And I don’t really feel like trying. Because if I can do twenty modified push-ups, that’d be just dandy with me. You know what? Don’t set impossible goals for me, when you don’t even know me, and when setting a difficult but achievable goal would be so much more productive. You can tell me to do 100 pushups and wait all night. I’m still only going to do twenty or thirty (with some resting). But now, instead of being thrilled with the accomplishment, I just feel crappy for barely doing a quarter of your task.
So I suffered through his whole class, doing a seriously half-assed job, and getting a fraction of the exercise (and fulfillment) I normally do, because I felt dumb leaving (I’d have to walk all around to room to put away my weights, my body bar, my step, etc, etc, etc.)
But then, the icing on my Assday Cake, was that, as I was walking home, sweaty and gross, with an ugly hat on to keep me warm in the arctic cold front, I ran into Mr. Popular Croton boy. A nice guy, someone I’ve known literally my entire life, but one who never fails to bring me back to my middle school insecurities.
Yeah, that was real fun.
It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood, a beautiful day in the neighborhood….
Welcome to my marathon training blog. It’s not all uplifting stories of sunrise epiphanies.
posted by Noames at 9:20 AM
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