In everything I do, there's a learning curve. It's hard, then it gets easier, and then I peak. It may be a tiny little peak, but nevertheless, I'm shouting from the rooftops that I get it!
Ever have that feeling? Enjoy it. It won't last.
I don't say this to be discouraging. I think that we, as humans, spend so much time embracing the good and not nearly enough time embracing the bad. Sometimes, we just need to accept that things suck, and the sooner we accept it, the sooner we can change it.
Onward and upward, my friends.
And so I found myself at the gym tonight, ready for another training session. I was coming off my high from yesterday, a two mile run in 32:20. I won't bore you with benchmarks, but for me, this is pretty darn good. I was hoping we might do our first check-up on my progress tonight and I'd have the chance to show just how awesome I've gotten in a month.
No, really. This is what my mind was telling me.
I got signed in, met up with J, and we made a bit of small talk while walking through the gym. Only we went right past the mats where I would do my sit-ups and push-ups, past the room with the scale and measuring tapes. We went instead into an equipment room where he picked up a kettlebell and began demonstrating some very straightforward, very pedestrian squats.
Huh, I thought. How strange. This isn't how evaluations go, and this isn't how we start our arms days.
My little heart sank when, in the middle of my second set of squats, I finally clued in that this was another leg day. I squatted and performed wall-sits and did some reverse hamstring extensions. I used this machine early on in the routine:
Holy cheesecake, I've never sweat so much in my life. I can only assume this model's smile was brought on by gas.
The highlight of the night - and by "highlight" I mean "worst thing ever and I hope to gravy I built some character or something" - came toward the end, back in the equipment room. My trusty trainer brought out a medicine ball and demonstrated throwing it as high up the wall as he could, bouncing it off and catching it again. He repeated this several times, bending his knees and propelling himself upward.
"You'll do sets of 45-seconds," he said, handing me the ball. "And sorry," he continued as I nearly audibly oofed, "I couldn't find the ten-pounder. So we'll use this one. I think it's fifteen."
And he smiled.
Intentional? Y/N?
I labored through the first 45-seconds, resting for thirty. I grunted my way through the second 45-seconds, then rested again. Okay. Very very very hard. But I made it. And then he told me I'd do it two more times.
You know that noise you make when something's heavy, like a grunt, but you're really not happy about it? So it's kinda like an angry whine? That noise. I made that noise for the next two minutes. I kept forgetting to breathe.
By the time it was all over, I was sure I haven't been that tired, emotionally or physically, in a very long time. It was a far cry from the triumphant "Look how good I am now!" I'd had planned for the night. It was a lot harder and a lot sadder. An awful lot more humbling.
But you know what? It was better. I can say that now that I'm home and showered, and all my muscles have stopped quivering. All this shortest path stuff means that the hard work is the most important part, and I need to keep believing that.
And I'll believe it until the next time we do legs again.
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