the ocean

I had a friend in town last week who is really into Crossfit, and he asked me to go to class with him. Since I've been to about ten thousand fitness classes in my life, I figured it wouldn't be a problem. But it didn't occur to me that my classes are generally taught by tiny, cute women named Erinn With Two Ns or Bekah With a K who like to shout "you can do so much more than you think you can!" and Instagram. Crossfit is taught by enormous, chemically altered bros who like to overcompensate for their limited command of the English language. And so there was suffering.

The whole class was based on snatch lifts and squats. A very pleasant bro right next to me decided to adopt me when he saw how terrible my lifting technique was, leading to a twenty minute sequence of me apologizing awkwardly for failing to move my wrists and/or elbows and/or shoulders in the preferred method. Suffice it to say that it is unlikely to be set to music for a training montage any time soon. And then, about halfway through the class, the tops started coming off all around the room. I have never seen so many tribal tattoos and homoerotic ass slaps in one place.

The upshot, of course, was that I was unable to walk normally for three days. I was foam rolling every two hours and sucking down back & body Tylenol like it was my job. And I had to ask Ian to fetch things from upstairs for me since stairs were pretty much out of the question. Isn't being fit grand?