So in my last entry, I wrote about how all I do is complain to Franz, and when it really hurts, he doesn’t believe me. Well, after that blog came out, a loyal reader (Hey, Katie!) suggested that we come up with a safe word to use. You know, the one word that I’m allowed to use to tell him that NO I’M DEAD SERIOUS, I’M DYING.
When I walked into training on that Wednesday, I proposed this idea to him, and he laughed. Then we both threw out words to use… at the same time. His was ‘Nutella’. Mine was ‘Marshmallow’. The first thing I thought was, I need a s’more.
After this, he proceeded to kick my ass, and I couldn’t use my legs for two days, and I never did get my s’more.
By the way, when Katie suggested I use a safe word, she also told me I couldn’t abuse it. I kept that in mind, until the end of my session. I was tired. I had been working so hard the whole time. Pushing myself to my limits. Feeling weak, but knowing I was strong. The very last set of exercises he put me through was pushing the Man Sled down the ‘green’, and back. He loaded it with 90 pounds, on top of it’s own heavy steel weight. When I got back to the start, I immediately had to go into a plank for 45 seconds, and then do it all over again. By the third set, I finally succumbed to my own pain and suffering, and yelled, “Nutella! Marshmallow!! NUTELLA AND MARSHMALLOW!!”. And if you were wondering, he didn’t care. I had to finish my last set.