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.

Super Muscle Chick

My trainer now knows exactly when he will be written about.  It has become a thing during my work outs, to let him know that whatever happened will turn into a blog.  In fact, he knows the moments so well, that sometimes even he calls it (‘This is going to be a blog, isn’t it’ shaking his head).  This is a story about one of those times.

There have been many times when I’m working out, that I am pulling on weights with all my might, and my trainer will say something like, ‘Damn, girl, look at those arms!  You’re so strong.  Seriously, look at those muscles poppin’!  Obviously I don’t look.  All I see is fat bat wings, anyways.  But sometimes, on rare occasion, I finally see what he sees.

This is an actual text conversation between my trainer, and myself:

Me: ‘I was putting my hair up in a bun, and I looked at my arms and I was like… (insert muscle arm emoji and wide eyes emoji)’

Him:  ‘It’s a bird.  It’s a plane.  It’s Super Muscle Chick!!’

Me: ‘Ha, ok.. but yeah, I just wasn’t expecting to see that’

Him: ‘I’ve been trying to show you that for a month’

Me: ‘I don’t take compliments very well.  Clearly.’

Him: ‘Alright, so now we’re on the same page.  You’re a diesel muscle bound woman who eats toddlers around for breakfast’

Me: ‘Well I carry them around while eating my breakfast, so…’

Him: ‘Just as good’

Me: ‘Thanks for putting up with me.  You know I appreciate it.’ (Remember how I said I apologize and tell him how much I love him, after threatening his life? Yup.)

Him: ‘You’re welcome.  Some idiot has to do it.  Let that idiot be me.’

If you really dig deep, you can feel the love we have for each other.  I know it’s mutual.  I mean, if he didn’t love me, he wouldn’t be able to put up with my complete shit attitude at the gym, multiple times a week.

Last week, as we were finishing up ‘Lower Body Murder Day’, we were headed back to the front of the gym, and we were fighting.  Naturally.  It’s really what we do best, next to making each other laugh at the dumbest crap.  Anyways, here we are, walking to the front desk where new gym members are strolling in, and I’m fighting with my trainer.  Another trainer (who knows us, well) walked up and said, ‘Do you guys ever stop fighting?’  And we laughed, and laughed, and laughed…. ok, I laughed.  Then he said something to prove that I am really the problem.

Today, as Murder Day ended, I plopped my ass on a chair at my trainers desk, to continue bothering him, naturally.  All of a sudden, with a very serious looking face, he says ‘Hey, so we’re having a pull up contest, and I think you’re a great competitor….’ His voiced trailed off, and a shit eating grin appeared across his face.  Because, he’s an asshole.  (If you aren’t understanding his funny funny ha ha, go read ‘Wait, You’re Stronger Now.  Try This.’)  I immediately, and openly, picked up my phone and made a note about the conversation, so I could blog about it later on.

In other news, I feel like I need a grand reveal for this guy.  He deserves it, at this point.

I’m Not Actually Athletic

I think I’ve made that very clear.  I mean, I suck on my volleyball team, I pretend to be a runner, I think sports injuries include pulling my groin while walking, and of course, I can’t work out in the weight room by myself in fear of killing myself or someone else.

So basically, I’m not actually athletic, I’m just thinner.  Sometimes, people will get that confused.  Like my trainer for example.  Yes, back to talking about HIM.  During warm up on the treadmill, he thinks it’s necessary to put me on the highest incline possible, at a decent rate of speed.  It’s kind of like speed climbing Mount Everest (I think, I could be wrong though).  Someone might look at me and think, of COURSE she can do that!  No problem!  WRONG.  I was heave-hoeing my way along.  Heavy breathing, sweat dripping, legs burning, and of course I was telling him to ‘get the fuck away from my treadmill before I kill you’ while swatting his hands away.  I’m super pleasant. 🙂 BTW warm up is only five minutes.

Yesterday, while doing my upper body work out with my Trainer, he started to say these absolutely insane things.  I’m not quite sure what he was thinking. He would say things like, ‘I train you like this so that someday you can do it by yourself’, and ‘When you don’t train with me, you should come and do these routines on your own’.  WHAT?!? How does he not know me, by now?  I won’t try to lie to you… my reaction went something like this: I straight up looked at him and said, ‘I will always need a trainer.  I will never be alone.  I can’t be left alone.  You’re insane.’ and I followed it up with, ‘You do know this will become a blog, right?’ This was all happening while I was lifting an Olympic Training Bar (or something like that… honestly, he told me what it was called, and I didn’t listen) into my fucking crotch. He only responded to me by laughing.  I’m pretty sure he was laughing at a combination of my Dumb Workout Face, my complete honesty, and the fact that he knows I write about him.

So yeah, I’m definitely not athletic.  At least I try, though.  I honestly don’t give a fuck if I embarrass myself, or look like a complete asshole.  I’m doing it.  I have come a long way from when I first joined a gym, and was completely embarrassed about being drenched in sweat when I left.  I mean, isn’t that the point?

My how times have changed.

This is what 'Lower Body Murder' day looks like when I'm done.

This is what ‘Lower Body Murder’ day looks like, when I’m done.

Wait, You’re Stronger Now. Try This.

Well, my faithful readers… do I have a good one for you.

Today was ‘Upper Body Murder’ day at the gym.  Before I even walked into the gym I was sweating.  It wasn’t even that hot out, but YOU try telling my body that!  Anyways, I walk into the gym, which, like usual, is a super wonderful humid warm space.  Why the hell don’t they pump the A.C. in a gym?  I really don’t get it.  Honestly, this part has nothing to do with my story, I just felt like letting you know that I work out in a sauna.  Ok, continue on.

So, my trainer and I enter the dungeon…err, the weight room, and we head to a set up with weights you can pull towards you in all sorts of directions, depending on how you set it up.  On the top of this unit there are handles so, those who are physically able, can do pull ups.  Pull ups are just another one of those things that I have never been able to do, and couldn’t ever see myself doing.

Well, like usual, my trainer thinks or assumes that I am much more fit/athletic/able to do things, only based on the fact that I’m now ‘lighter’.  So, he says, ‘Hold on, let me go get something.  You’re gonna try something’.  He walks back over to me, carrying a Plyo box (When I see these boxes, I cry.  Immediately.) and says, ‘Here, step up on this and grab those handles’.

‘Ummmm what?  Wait a fucking second… do you think I’m going to do a pull up???  You’re insane.  I hate you.  You DO know this will become a blog post, right?!?’  is what I said without filter or giving a shit about who was around me… but I stood up on the box, to appease him.  I grabbed the handles, pulled up, and immediately lost all strength in my arms and just ended up hanging there.  Just fucking hanging, off of a metal structure, in the middle of a weight room, in a hot and humid gym, with people watching me.  I looked at myself in the mirror and felt like I was looking at that poor kid in elementary school who couldn’t get across the monkey bars, and just hung there (that’d be me folks!).  That’s when I got down.

I’m not even quite sure WHAT was going through my trainers head, because he didn’t skip a beat, and he got up onto the Plyo Box.   He grabbed the handle bars, and said, ‘No, you’re supposed to do it like this‘, and proceeded to pull himself up.

Well, no shit, asshole.  I know what it’s supposed to look like.  That’s what I tried to do!

He gets down, and asks me to try again. Apparently for shits and giggles, he wants to see me suffer or fail or cry or fall or whatever.

I get back up, grab the bars (he pointed to new handles for me to hold, as if that would help me lift entire hot mess of a body), and pulled up as far as I could.  Quick image- I was basically just HANGING there.  My arms were ever so slightly bent.  Clearly I can’t do this.  I guess I proved my failure to my trainer, because he told me to get down, so I did the opposite and immediately started to swing my entire body in a circle, around the Plyo Box, while hanging from the bars above.  Cirque Du Soleil style.  Wheeee!!

No joke, he thought I was falling, and he started sweating because he was so scared… or was it the fucking humidity in the gym??

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This is a Plyo Box.  You can call it the Devil Box too, and we can make it a thing.

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Guys, look!!  It’s me!!!

An Inside Peek…

I know all of you are wondering what I’m like at the gym.  Right? No? Oh, well you’re about to find out anyways.

Let me just start by saying that I’m pretty sure that when I walk into the weight room, the guys working out groan in frustration.  No joke.  When they see me coming, they know that the weight room will no longer be a quiet place for them to concentrate on what they’re doing.  Ally is here.

So, I never go into the weight room alone.  For me, it’s the equivalent of walking down the basement stairs when you were little, and being scared that the Boogey Monster would pop out at you.  I’m scared.  I know what to do, and how to do it, but I still don’t trust myself to actually DO anything in there, alone.  So, my lucky trainer gets to accompany me.  He hates it.  In fact, the other day he said to me “I think you were put in my life to teach me patience”.  Well sir, you’re welcome. 🙂

When I’m in the weight room, I am usually covered in sweat, struggling to catch my breath, and pushing myself super hard.  Sounds exactly like how it should be, right?  Ok… so let me also add that I swear constantly, threaten the life of my trainer, and have no problem whining and complaining every step of the way.   I know, you’re probably like, ‘WHAT??  Ally SWEARS??’  If you’re thinking that, then you have some reading to do.  Go back and start with my very first blog entry.  See you in a bit!! But yes, it’s true; My mouth has no filter, and you know what?  I don’t care.  It’s who I am.

99% of the time, when I leave the gym, I text my trainer and apologize for threatening his life.  He knows I won’t actually suffocate him, or punch him in the face.  He also knows  that I don’t really dream of ways to make him suffer, like he does to me.  Yet, I still say all of these things; but only when I’m lifting the weights, or pushing the sled, or throwing the medicine ball, or struggling to use the battle rope… FINE!.., or really just about anything I do there.  These things just seem to fall out of my mouth when I’m struggling to function.

Honestly, I think what drives these muscle men the craziest, is that I’m LOUD (Mom, can you believe it??).  Beyond the threats and swears, I grunt, scream, whine, and eventually collapse to the floor.  I really do think that the guys working out rejoice when my 30 minutes of torture end, and I leave.

If I’m not being incredibly annoying doing all of these things, then I’m very busy talking to my body.  Specifically my right arm.  Sometimes I can’t even get it to move.  I look at it and say, ‘Fuck you, bitch! Move!’ out loud.  No shame.  Oh, and my left leg??  That asshole decides to quit 15 minutes into my lower body workouts.  Cool.  Thanks a lot, body.

It’s not ALL bad though.  I have this interesting way of completely pissing off my trainer, and then making him laugh at me for whatever reason.  Usually it’s because I’m making some insane face (or so he says).  You know how some people have Resting Bitch Face?  I guess I have Insane Workout Face.  When he laughs, I laugh (and then he gets mad at me for laughing because it means I’m not working out hard enough).

So there it is, folks.  That’s an inside look at being in the gym, with me.  Anyone want to join me with my friend pass??

“That Sounds Like A GREAT Idea”

I said…… when challenged with a 5k.

Not just any 5k, oh no.  The Roc Race.  Basically the show “Wipe Out” in real life.  Can you picture this?  ME??  Being knocked off of a beam by huge balls? Falling into the water below a crazy obstacle?  I mean really, even my trainer was hesitant about me doing it. So you know what I did?  Signed up.  Why not prove the ONE person who knows my limits, wrong (or right, we’ll soon find out).

Look  it up! www.rocrace.com  In fact, join our team!! There’s still time!

I have a chalkboard at home counting down my days until I get  my ass handed to me.  It sits at my front door as a reminder when I leave that I only have a few more days.. ok, fine 32, but it feels like it’s happening tomorrow.

 

These are some reactions I have gotten when telling people about the race:

‘OH! I know that race, I’m doing it too’ -not bad….

‘WHAT? YOU? You’ll never make it” -positive reinforcement from my trainer (I love him, he rocks, I swear)

‘Do you win anything?’ -No, because I’m pretty sure I won’t finish.

‘You may want to train on the monkey bars’ -manager at my gym.  Encouraging advice.

‘Please, for everyone, video tape it’ -GoPro anyone?

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