Y’all… there aren’t words. My thighs feel like I had a one night stand with Jeffrey Dahmer and he fell asleep after eating a little of each.
Every step hurts. Every breath hurts. I liken stairs to natural childbirth.
Walking down stairs hurt last week.
Upstairs feels like unmedicated surgery this week.
I. Am. Crippled.
Handstands and pull-ups. Push-ups and squats. It has kicked my ass in every imaginable way.
Kettlebell swings, burpees and wall balls have become my new least favorite activities. I have done things physically in the last month that defy my own imagination. I’m stunned after every workout that I actually pulled it off. This is one of those areas where being too nice is dangerous as hell. I can’t let my beloved Nick down… so I have to do all 15 of those goddamn box squats. Even though my ass is on fire and my legs feel like chopped gelatin.
I am purple and panting on my way out the door. It takes a cool shower and a quart of water to get dressed and headed to work. The stairs to my office are tall and painful with a million more in the warehouse.
Today’s workout was push-ups, handstands, hanging pull-ups, and deadlifts. My arms feel like they were ripped off a little. Not enough to come off entirely, but enough to break the sockets and separate the muscle from the bone. Yeah. That’s fun.
My back feels like I got sideswiped by a rearview mirror on the highway. It’s a little sore.
My shoulders ache, my chest throbs and that left pectoral muscle I had lifted last January is angry. It’s a rough day to inhabit this body. Especially running on 3 hours of sleep on the same day the coffee ran out.
Three hours of sleep wrapped up in him, which was not exactly restful. I’ve wanted to sleep in his t-shirt forever and now that I’ve tossed and turned in his hoodie, I’ve learned my lesson. A noteworthy orgasm at a very high price. <yawn>
Of all the days I’ve been scheduled to go to CrossFit… this is the one time I really didn’t want to.
I’ve promised myself not to quit and my body already feels different enough in my own hands after just a month, that I’m hooked.
It’s nice to like the reflection staring back at me a little more and feels really great to do something healthy for myself.
Assuming I survive it, I’m actually really happy to have found something I can love that will make me feel better, naturally. I’ve been so damn sad that I was at my breaking point and ready to ask for a half dozen happy pills a day.
Anthony was over the moon that I’d decided to finally try it, and even more so that I loved it. Even more reason to stick with it and find the me that’s been hidden under all this mommy for the past 24 years.
I’ve joked from the beginning that I want to tear down the factory to build a playground, and now I’m knee deep in the demolition and construction phase. It’s rough, but I’m stubborn as hell and twice as driven to be successful. It’s that firstborn thing that can get me in just as much trouble as it does good.
Only this time, it’s going to land me in a bikini… after a whole lot of soul-stomping, back-breaking exercise, a few trips to my plastic surgeon and my own raw determination. My firstborn claimed my beautiful body in exchange for his sweet perfection, when I was just 18 years old. I’m going to dig it back out if it kills me.
So if anyone has a wheelchair, a toilet riser or a nice handsome home health care nurse to help me in and out of bed, I’d be most appreciative.
Bonus points if he’s a good cook.