I hit 1,000 WODs without realizing it. I had been counting up, got to 998, and then forgot, and when I looked at my notebook again, I had glided right past it. A little disappointed, tbh. It’s like watching your odometer creep up to 99,998 miles and getting distracted by the bumper sticker on the car in front of you.
Six years. I’ve worked out an average of 3 times a week for six years, even factoring in the ten months I took off for babies and wrist injury.
I like myself a lot more than I did in August of 2010. Of course, that’s not all because of CrossFit. There’s age and wisdom and shit. But CrossFit is definitely part of it. Here are a few things I’ve gotten from all the fucking burpees.
1. Doing something difficult makes a person proud.
When you’re a kid, every day offers an opportunity to buff your nails on your lapel. You get an A on a math test, or you win the spelling bee, or you place 3rd in the talent show with a stupid lip-sync routine to “Leader of the Pack,” or your terrible soccer team of tiny people beats another terrible soccer team of tiny people.
But once you reach adulthood, life is all gas tanks to fill and dishes to wash and tiny asses to wipe. Nobody’s handing out trophies for paying your water bill online. There’s no podium to stand on when you replace the battery in that smoke detector.
If you’re doing it right, CrossFit is hard, no matter your fitness level. And though my “athletic performance” is something “to be put in quotation marks,” and every WOD is a challenge for me, I show up, I sweat, I grunt, and occasionally I barf a little bit. And I’m usually proud of myself when I leave.
2. It’s possible to learn new things at any age.
“I’m too old to learn to ski,” I thought to myself. I was in high school at the time. Sucks, but Being Too Old to Start is one of the tapes that continues to play in my head.
It’s not for lack of role models. My mom got her Ph.D. when I went to college. My grandma learned to windsurf at 58. Yet for some reason I continue to look at most windows of opportunity as painted shut.
But I’ve learned a bunch of new stuff from doing CrossFit. I learned to clean and jerk at 35, and after 18 months of self-flagellation, I managed to string together double-unders. Next on the list: muscle-ups! (Right after pull-ups!) (Right after hell freezes over!)
Know thyself. So said the Oracle at Delphi. So sayeth the Fat CrossFitter. Know yourself, as a human and as an exerciser. I have friends who outfit their garages with barbells and racks and all kinds of stuff, and they actually go into their garages, unprompted by anyone, and lift weight.
Not me. I’m not going to do jackshit unless a coach tells me to. Those months I took off, I could barely make myself go for dog-walks. But once I walk in the gym, I’m going to do what’s on the whiteboard. (Or at least some variation thereof.)
Figure it out–are you a person who has to be bossed around, or are you a self-starter?–and adjust your exercise plan, and your life plan, as needed.
4. You can’t tell someone’s fitness level by looking at them.
We had a CrossFit Total meet a couple years back. One of my friends, whose torso looks like chiseled marble, was lifting against a big soft dude, and hell if that doughy motherfucker didn’t positively own sculpted guy.
One of the strongest women at my gym looks like a totally average, medium-sized human person, but she squats 315. Three fifteen.
On runs I’ve watched the backs of people fatter than me disappear into the distance while I bust my ass to keep up, yet I’ve done sit-ups twice as fast as the skinny gal next to me.
You cannot tell how fit a person is visually. It’s not possible. So stop trying.
P.S. If you have visible abs, congratulations on whatever work you’ve done to make them that way, but please don’t assume you’ve worked harder than the guy next to you with the dad bod. You may have, but you may have not. You may just have been born with genes programmed for ab-visibility. Genes don’t deserve back-pats. Work does.
5. Progress cometh and progress goeth away and sometimes it cometh back and sometimes it stayeth away. Who the fuck cares?
With pregnancy and single parenthood of twins, one of whom was in the hospital for nearly eight months, came regression. I eventually got my squat back, but I still haven’t regained my deadlift.
That’s OK. Probably not gonna go head-first into the crematorium at my physical peak. I’m 41, and I haven’t slept in two and a half years. The time for PRs may or may not be over. So what. I’m not, and have never claimed to be, a Games-level athlete–if I’m blowing a little plaque out of arteries regularly, I’m fending off death for the moment. That’s a good thing because people like having me around, and it’s not because of my deadlift.
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There you have it–a little wisdom from a Fat CrossFitter 1,000 WODs in.
Actually, 1,024, but who’s counting?
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