"Find yourself a buddy," Craig called out to us CrossFitters. These words create a panic in me that makes me think of when I walked into the high school cafeteria for the first time as a freshman.
I look around urgently. Andrea was standing next to me.
"Will you be my buddy?" I squeak out.
She looks surprised. I'm not sure if it's because of the panic in my voice or because that was her intent when she walked in my direction. "Sure."
We discuss the weights. We're supposed to do about 60% of our max weights for dead lift, thrusters and push press. My upper body strength is practically nonexistent. We settled on something that was closer to 50% of her max, erring on the light side, per Craig's instructions, because the large number of reps we'd be doing. (Well, that and doing 50% makes the math a little easier.)
Between the two of us we're to do: 8 pull ups, 8 box jumps, 8 kettle ball swings, 8 knees to elbows, 8 dead lifts, 8 thrusters, 8 push presses, and 8 push ups. Eight full rounds, each of us taking four of the exercises at a time...so really four full rounds for each of us. Some of the more experienced CrossFitters, in addition to doing the full prescribed weights (or Rx in CrossFit terms), were doing all eight rounds solo.
On my last round of dead lifts, I paused, glaring at the bar. I was tired, but not exhausted. Just tired enough that I questioned my sanity. "Why am I doing this, again?" I asked myself before sidling up to the bar. My count was doing one lift to each syllable of my mantra "This is stu-pid." (Repeat once.)
Once finished, I sat on the floor. The muscles in my arms, stomach and thighs quivered even though I was no longer moving. And I found myself thinking, again, we should really have some sort of post-workout designated driver program. The idea is that someone abstains from working out so there is an alert driver who can take other people home. I turned my gaze to the experienced CrossFitters and decided to stay and cheer for them.
I'm not going to lie, watching them struggle with their workout is sort of...heartening. It's like watching a black belt sweat during kata. There's something reassuring in knowing that the struggle remains even after you've been working at something for years.
My eyes turned toward Marissa. Her shirt was folded up, exposing washboard abs more defined than any guys' at the gym.
Andrea sat next to me. "Marissa's stomach is sick."
I nod. "It's awesome. I'm totally jealous."
"Your abs are sick, Marissa!" she yells out. "Bitch!"
Marissa gives a small grin from the chin-up bar. Then she pauses, burying her face in her elbow.
Oh, no. I know that kind of tired. I've felt it. The urge to cry is squeezing at her chest, making it hard to breathe. She's trying to wait it out...so she can catch her breath.Tears of sympathy stung my eyes.
"Come on, Marissa," someone yells out. "Almost done!"
She stumbles over to the bar to finish her last set of thrusters and push presses. Everyone stayed behind. By the time she got to the push presses, everyone starts counting with her. Some people counting forward; some counting backwards. "I hope she's keeping count in her head," I quip. The humor chasing away the tears still swimming in my eyes.
She finishes her last rep, and rushes outside...able to cry at last. Then, the gym fills with the noise of people cleaning up. Andrea and I had already put our stuff away and I have impatient teenagers at home, waiting for me. So, I wave goodbye over my shoulder and leave.
Out in the parking lot, I look around for Marissa. I want to say something to her, but I'm not sure what.
"Hey, good job." No, too condescending.
"I know how you feel." Hmm, could be insulting from a newb like me.
"You want to be alone?" Duh, she just ran out to be by herself.
I slip behind the wheel of my car and look around. I see Marissa huddled between two cars. She is holding herself and shaking. Yeah, she wants to be alone, I said to myself pulling out. Maybe I'll just send her a note later.
