More evidence that I hate myself

A few weeks ago I decided that I was *over* doing Pilates because it wasn't that hard anymore.

Now, I certainly don't have the physique that might accompany such bold statements, but the fact remained that I wasn't getting up the next morning after a Pilates workout to hobble my way to the bathroom with peg legs and, for whatever stupid reason, that bothered me.

I should be more sore than this. It's not working anymore. Also, where is this damned "completely changed body" that I was promised three years ago when I started taking Pilates on the crazy ass machine they love to call The Reformer even though it apparently does no such thing?

Yeah, also I was bored. 

I mean - the classes were still enjoyable in a hey I get to wear comfy yoga pants and stretch a bit and chat a lot and then get on with my day like a normal person even if I decide not to shower right away because I'm not really sweating kinda way, but even that started to bug me.

Why am I not sweating after a 60 minute workout? Shouldn't I be sweating?

I decided that I should be sweating.

And that was when I let six month's worth of subtle suggesting make a home in my brains.

"You'd LOVE Crossfit!" I was told.

"Crossfit is SO something you'd do." I was told.

"I can't believe you don't already DO Crossfit - the music is even fucked up enough for you to like it." I was told.

So I gave in and, after a very encourage-y friend actually went to the website and found a local "box" (I guess this is their way of not calling it an abandoned warehouse) that's, like, a mile from my house and pointed my face at the online schedule and then the monthly fee which happened to be the same as Pilates except I can go as much as I want rather than once a week, I went to my first class.

And then I didn't walk right for a week.

Actually, that's not true. I'm still not walking right and that was over a week ago. 

And that is because I strutted into Crossfit on Day One with the attitude that no one new to Crossfit should have.

That being, "I'm already in good shape. This should be fun. I'm going to kill this."

And let me tell you that I most certainly did not kill Crossfit on Day One. 

No, instead I killed ME on Day One and, apparently for at least seven days following Day One.

People, I can hardly lower my rump onto the loo without pain seizing my upper quads and my hands shooting out to brace myself on the walls while I try to not scream out in pain. 

I couldn't even go for my run on Tuesday morning following my Monday Workout of Doom (they call the Workout of the Day a "WOD", but I think I know what it really stands for now) because of the whole I-Can't-Bend-At-The-Knee thing and my run on Thursday morning was done simply to prove to myself that I was still capable of bipedal motion.

It wasn't pretty, that's to be sure.

Meanwhile, the class itself (prior to the crippling leg muscle pain) was terribly enjoyable. 

There was running (which YAY! I can run! Maybe I won't suck at everything in this workout!) there was squatting FOREVER, there were free weights, there were decently cool other chicks and there was the promised fucked up music which I did like very much because HELLO I'm not sure what makes for better workout music than Five Finger Death Punch. 

Perhaps this is just me speaking from years of enduring remixes of Sheena Easton in Step aerobics or Beastie Boys in Bootcamp or whatever, but to walk into a gym playing music that I might have already been listening to on the drive over is, well, encouraging.

What was not encouraging was the moment I realized I'd forgotten my water bottle after leaving the gym and had to make the difficult decision to go back to retrieve it.

For a good solid minute I decided that I did not need that water bottle because there was probably no way for me to make my legs get out of the car and walk all 50 feet back to the location of said water bottle.

"They'll probably still have it next time I come to class because I'm sure no one really wants to take someone else's cootie-riddled water bottle, so they'll probably just set it aside and then next week I can pick it up when I've regained the use of the lower half of my body."

But then I felt like a total loser because it wasn't my water bottle (Hi Bubb! I borrowed your water bottle because all of mine are rolling around on Duchess's floor!) and only 60 minutes earlier I had shown up all Big Balls Finny ready to kill this workout and suddenly I was Noodle Legs Finny who wasn't even sure she could operate the clutch adequately to drive herself for the one mile home.

So I forced myself to go back for the water bottle, which may have been the hardest physical thing I've ever done,  and even attempted a slight jog which I abruptly aborted because my left leg wasn't responding as anticipated.

It had already seized up into an immovable hip-to-ankle log. 

I was curious as to whether I'd be able to drive.

But I got my water bottle, pretended to the coaches that I felt great by smiling and bidding them great days and then I got into the car without visible tears in my eyes.

Triumph! I killed that workout!

Or, no.

But, I did manage to make it home, although I will admit that despite consistently exceeding 3500 RPMs I did not change out of second gear because of the aforementioned immobility of my left leg, and one week later (today) I went back for round two.

During which time I also did not die. 

Nor did I kill the workout.

But I'm sticking with it because if I want to be sore after working out, this is the surest way I've seen to accomplish that.

Also, I clearly hate myself.