Redemption Is Short Lived (The Volleyball Edition) **HOW DID THIS NOT POST?!**

Writer’s Note- What the hell??  How did this not post?  Well, scroll on back through Fat Girl Wunning, and refresh your memory of my career as a volleyball player.  Then, come back, and read this final entry about my team.

 

I bet you all know where this is going.

Last Wednesday was our final night for summer volleyball, 2017.  Somehow, my team made it to the playoffs.  I mean, all we really had to do was be one of the top 10 out of twelve teams, but still.  We made it.

Unfortunately, playoffs just happened to land on the worst day ever.  Two of our best  team members would be up in the air, on a plane, flying to Europe.  Another one of our badass players would be vacationing with his family at a beach.  So far, already no good.  Add in that the week prior we lost all four games due to complete shit playing, and we had a recipe for failure, for playoffs.

It was best out of three.  If you won, you moved on.  If you lost, you were obviously out.  Which mean, no trophy full of Harpoon beer, for you.

Games start at 6:30 pm.  The league refs made a few announcements, and we were off to the courts.  The games begin, and keeping right on par with the last few weeks of the season, we suck.  Balls drop.  Balls are being hit directly out of bounds.  No one calls the ball, and bodies hit.  It was a disaster.  All we really could do, was laugh.  I mean, I spent the time sideline coaching, and then freaking out on the court, but really what’s new?

Have I mentioned that the playoff games means a photographer is there to capture the teams, in all their glory?  Yeah…  First of all, no glory was happening with team Block Party.  Secondly, while standing next to him while I was sideline coaching, I may have told him to walk away from me because otherwise he was going to go deaf, listening to me scream.

It’s amazing how even on the last night of the season, I still get flustered when I’m out of rotation, and then realize I have to go back in and serve.  But here I was.  It was my turn to serve, during the second game, and it really truly didn’t matter because we were obviously losing.  All of a sudden I hear, ‘Look good for the photographer!’ and I ask, ‘Where is he?!?’

Right.Next.To.Me.  Somehow I didn’t notice him.  Anyways, I do my routine of digging my feet into the sand, relaxing my body, twirling the ball in my hand (all of this makes me look like I know what I’m doing), I swing my arm and I hit the ball over the net.  I immediately turn to the photographer and say, ‘If it’s ugly, delete it!’.  He promised it wasn’t ugly.

So let’s just fast forward.  Not too far though… like fast forward to 6:55 (remember, the games started at 6:30).  We’re out.  We have lost two games.  Miserable.  We packed up our shit, and said our final good-byes to each other.  Someone piped up and asked, ‘Anyone want to go for a beer?’ and the whole team responded the same way… groaning and sadly saying, ‘no…’.

Who would want to celebrate that kind of end to an otherwise decent season?  Meh.

 

 

BTW- I’m so very thankful that Volleyball Season is over because now I can get a pedicure without the sand destroying it! #yayforlittlethings

 

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‘That’s When You Know You’re A Real Weight Lifter’

“Oh no!  An injury?! Well, that’s how you know you’re a real weight lifter”.

That’s the text I received from my old trainer (who is soon to be my new trainer, AGAIN), when I told him that I wasn’t allowed to do to any sort of weight lifting for a while, because I hurt my shoulder.

It.  Sucks.  It’s like, when you’re finally on a roll and you are doing well and then CRASH! BOOM! BANG! life gets in the way.  Again.

So I hurt my shoulder doing a lift I had never done before, where the bar of weights is resting on the back of my neck, and shoulders.  It’s the only thing I can think of that would have pulled anything back there.  Two days after the work out I was sore, but that’s normal.  It was the next three days, and the following week after getting medication, that sucked so bad.

My doctor thought I had a pinched nerve… FUCK! NOT AGAIN! WHY ME??? (queue Nancy Kerrigan scream).  Upon further investigation, my new Physical Therapist (the lucky duck he is) decided that it was actually a severely pulled muscle in my shoulder, and it is now affecting my arm and neck strength.  Cool.

I have some exercises I get to do at home to try to ease the pain, and get myself back in working order.  I also have my super-cool-make-me-fall-asleep medication, to help with the awful pain.  I was really bummed out about not being able to weight train, but I will tell you one thing…  When the Physical Therapist said ‘Definitely NO SQUATS’, I almost got down on one knee, and proposed.

Do You Have Five Minutes?

It’s Thursday night.  I have completed two sessions with my new trainer, and I’m laying on my couch recuperating.  My phone buzzes and it says that I have a text from my old trainer.

‘How was the first week?’ he asks.

‘Well, I didn’t swear’ I answered.

After a few back and forth messages about my new trainers training technique, he asks what I am doing on Friday morning.  I tell him I’m going to visit my grandparents…but why???

‘I wanted to see if you could meet me at a gym.  I found a place where I can train people.  I chose my favorite five clients, and you made the list.’

How is that even possible?  I am the worst to him.  I mean, I threaten his life on a daily basis!  Oh well… I MADE THE LIST!!  Unfortunately, this doesn’t change the fact that I can’t go see the gym, but I am excited at the prospect of training with him again (guess I should have held my breath after all!!).

So, it’s Friday morning, and I place a mobile Starbucks order, hop in my car, and head down the street to grab my espresso.  I get out of the car, and walk with my head down, staring at my phone.  All of a sudden I hear, ‘Ohhh… I thought you were going to see your grandparents.  That’s why you couldn’t meet up with me’!  I look up, and see my old trainer.  I’m completely startled.  This is the equivalent to seeing a teacher outside of school.  It’s just not supposed to happen.

I pull myself together, and start laughing and telling him that I am just grabbing my coffee, and headed to see my grandparents.  He asks if I have five minutes to check out the gym, and before I can resist, he pulls me down the sidewalk.

We walk into this space full of VERY athletic looking people.  Women are seamlessly puling themselves up on bars. People are lifting weights as if they were picking up feathers.  Most of the space is what the ‘Green’ looks like at the gym.  Remember the ‘green’?  The space in the gym that I hate the most?  This place was 100% ‘green’ area.

My trainer explains that he can train me here, and he can do it the way he really wants to.  ‘You’re going to transform’ he says.

All I can think about are all the ways I’ll picture hurting him, while training here.

#newbeginnings

 

 

Newbie.

It’s the first week after my trainer left the gym, and I am starting with someone new.  I have seen this new trainer around the gym, and I didn’t have anything good or bad to say about him, I just didn’t know him.  When he was assigned to take me over as a client, I did the nice thing, and prepared him for my vulgar language and piss poor attitude.

Our first real conversation was while I was walking on the treadmill.  He came up to me and tried to have a normal conversation.  He was telling me about how he went to Boston with his family, and I was desperately trying to listen, I swear.  It was hard.  I had no interest in the conversation, and I immediately decided we had nothing in common.   This just wasn’t going to work.

I message my old trainer, and tell him ‘I can’t do it’.  He knows exactly what I’m talking about, and says, ‘Yes I can, just laugh at him.  It’s what I used to do.’  Oh, ok.

My first day of training comes, and we did things a little differently than I was used to.  I hated 90% of the exercises, but I didn’t complain.  In fact, I didn’t even swear the whole time.  By the end of my session, my arms were killing me, my shoulders were throbbing, and my midsection was on fire.  That’s when he said, ‘Let’s do Battle Ropes’.  He seriously must be on crack.  I was near tears, but I sucked it the fuck up, didn’t complain, and grabbed the ends of the ropes with both hands.  I shook those things as hard as I could, for as long as I could.  It was seriously like 20 seconds.  I stopped.  Ten seconds later, I do it again.

I really felt weak, until a guy turned to me and said, I can’t even do that for twelve seconds.  I know he was just saying that because he was head to toe muscle, had been working out for an hour without breaking a sweat, and was confident enough to wear man-capris.  He can battle rope with the best of them, I know it.  …but deep down, I appreciated it.

By the end of the week, after I completed both upper body and lower body murder day, I appreciated my new trainer a little more.  I don’t think I’ll be able to joke with him like I did my last trainer, or slap his arm, but I’ll get a good work out and thats what counts… I guess.

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This shirt says the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

Out With The Old?

So, it’s been a few weeks since I’ve written, and really the only reason why, is because NOTHING funny has happened to me.  I go to the gym, I work, I come home.  I feel like I spend most of my time at the grocery store, or Target.  Sometimes I let myself get into a mundane routine, which can have its good parts, but it really just creates a little bubble around me.  The bubble always seems to end up popping in the most inconvenient way.  Like, I have NO control over what will change, or how it will change, or when it will change.

This bubble was no different.

It’s an ordinary Monday and I am at the gym, sweating it out to the WORST MUSIC EVER, on the treadmill.  I’m minding my own business, with my headphones on, and Netflix desperately trying to drown the noise of the 90’s pop blaring from the gym speakers.  All of a sudden, like the stealth ninja he is, my trainer sneaks up on me and props himself up on the treadmill to my left.  He says, ‘So… I have to talk to you.’  Immediately, I knew something was bad.  It was off.  I said, ‘Oh God, what?  What’s the bad news??’  He responds, ‘What?  Maybe its not bad news!’  to which I say, ‘Obviously it is…’

‘I’m leaving the gym’ he says.

No shit.  Bad news.  Seven years at this gym, and equally as many trainers.  This time I was super bummed though.  He seems to just get me.  He lets me be who I am, threatening his life and all, and he still puts up with me.  Yet, obviously he’s leaving the gym, and messing up my routine, because like usual, my perfect ‘going well please don’t change’ bubble, has burst.  Changes throw me for a loop.  I hate them.

Anyways, he then word vomits ‘Thursday is our last session together’.  Oh cool.  Ok, bye.

The next day I went for Upper Body Murder Day, and we worked out just as hard, if not harder, than we had before.  On Thursday I went for Lower Body Murder Day, and he basically tortured me.  I know that it was payback for what I’ve put him through.  We set up my next weeks training with a new (already don’t like him) trainer, and we hug goodbye.

Before I leave I say, ‘What the fuck… this sucks.  I’d pay you.  Under the table… just train me outside of here!’

I won’t hold my breath.

Medicine Ball Of Death

It’s no joke that my anger goes into overdrive when my trainer says, ‘Warm up and I’ll meet you on the green!’.

The green is the area of the weight room that has the plyo box.  Enough said.  No, but it also has the sled, the battle ropes, hand weights, and kettle bells, amongst other things that are trying to murder me.   We call it the green because the ground looks like it’s fake grass.  It’s honestly my personal hell.

I absolutely, 100%, HATE when he tells me to ‘meet him on the green’.  It has come to my realization that I hate it because I know I am weak when I work out over there.  I know that I lose my breath faster, and my throat starts to burn worse, and I am just plain old fucking miserable, when I’m there.  I am much more comfortable and accustomed to working out on the weight machines.  I guess that’s why he makes me work out on the green.  He knows I need to challenge myself.  He’s doing for me.  But… really?  Fuck that business.

Anyways, it’s upper body murder day, and I am on ‘the green’.  It’s the end of my work out, and I have already spent the better part of my 30 minutes pushing my arms and shoulders to their limits.  I have lifted weights in all sorts of ways, and I have done a pretty good job of NOT complaining, the whole time.  In fact, I barely complained when I hurt.  I pushed through it.  I have goals, dammit.  I’m not going to get there by whining.

That thought process quickly went out the window when I saw that he had the Medicine Ball Of Death in his hands, on ‘the green’.  It was the last part of my work out.  I would be doing three sets each, of four different movements.  Ten reps of lifting my arms over my head with 15 pound weights in each hand.  Five reps of lifting the same weights like a bird flapping it’s wings (that’s the actual technical term for this move, I’m pretty sure). Ten push ups (because he’s an asshole).  And finally, ten catches of the medicine ball, then lifting it over my head, and slamming it to the ground.  I make it through the first set of the first three movements, and then I struggle my ass off with the medicine ball.  Like, between each and every lift and slam, I am dying.  My arms hurt.  I have sweat in my eyes.  I am weak.  I am tired.  …and apparently, I’m making those oh so famous, Dumb Workout Faces.

He couldn’t stop laughing at me.  Very single catch of that ball, and grunt when I tried to lift it, and apparent face I made- he laughed.

I made it through, and finished all three sets, and by the third set, I was chucking the ball down on the ground with ease (mostly because I was picturing it being his face).

While we were walking back to the front of the gym, he turned to me and said, ‘That medicine ball episode should never have aired on TV.  You laughed more than you threw the ball.’  Uhh, yes.  Because laughing is how I keep from crying, my friend. And we all know we don’t need a crying client ‘on the green’.

The Clap

Our bodies make noises.  If you pretend yours doesn’t, then you’re just fooling yourself.  Not only do our bodies make noises, but we aren’t the only ones who hear them.

When my knees crack, the snaps can be heard from across the room by the deaf.  When my ankles pop, it sounds like the creaks from an old wooden chair.  I mean, I KNOW that when I move, everyone hears it.  Let’s not forget that I moan and groan when I stand up and sit down, so much so, that the baby I nanny has picked up the habit to moan and groan when he stands up and sits down.

So, it may surprise you that in my twisted sense of reality, I really figured that NO ONE heard… the clap.

It’s no secret that when you lose weight, you don’t just magically lose all of the skin that you spent years stretching out.  Nope, that shit stays with you.  Like a badge of honor, or a fat tax, or something.

Well, as I lose my padding, I gain sag.  Lately, I have noticed that my body has a new noise.  It claps.  Like, when I have my arm up, and I let it down real fast.  MY BODY CLAPS FOR ME.  I actually sent this as a text to my two girlfriends from High School.  I told them that it was super nice of my body to give me a round of applause when I’m up walking around.  Still, I thought I was the only one who could hear it.

I wasn’t.

So, it’s a Thursday, and I’m at the gym.  I’m actually in an absolutely terrible mood.  Like, my normal ‘funny ha-ha I’m going to kill you’ jokes to my trainer, had a much more authentic vibe on this particular day, if you know what I’m saying.  Honestly, I was in no mood to joke.  No mood to play around.  I was angry with the work out.  I was angry with my lack of ability.  I was angry with the Plyo Box (i.e.: Devil Box).

I’m doing step ups, and struggling with them.  I have three sets of ten step ups, per leg.  I’m on my last set of 10 for my last leg, and I raise my arms to catch my balance.  As I step back down to the ground, my arms come down, and…

‘CLAP’.

My trainer starts to laugh a little, and in a quick moment, he stops.  I think he sucked that shit back inside, in fear of actually being slapped across his face. (full disclosure: I wouldn’t ever hit him, no matter how mad I was… I’m really not a violent, mean person.  I just play one, at the gym.)

I am physically dying.  I’m trying to catch my breath. I’m trying to not die.  I’m trying not to laugh, because well… that shit was funny.

At that moment, I remember what I said to my friends.  My body was clapping for me.  I was actually receiving a round of applause from my body, for making it through my work out.  I’ll take it.

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Wun.