Totally Crossed Out

For three weeks I have been in pain. PAIN! It hurt to go to the bathroom (those dang squats! But more one that later). Let me explain. I made a decision—one probably a decade in the making—to get healthy and physical. A variety of things contributed to that, but most specifically, being pregnant and having Baby E and watching my father almost die as a result of diabetes.

That was it. When I was pregnant, my parents planned to come spend a month with us to help out with the new baby. My dad came down almost three weeks ahead of mom to enjoy our 70 degree December temps. He was happy to leave the “hawk” behind in the Windy City. While he was here though, twice, I found him, nearly passed out, incoherent, unable to speak, sit up or get up to come get my help. I don’t even want to think about what the outcome would’ve been if I hadn’t actually opened the bedroom door to check on him when I hadn’t heard him get up by 11 am. I found him on the bed and called 911 and then called my mother. The paramedics tended to him and tried to calm me down so they wouldn’t have to deliver a baby AND help him too! That was it. We were fortunate. God granted him a reprieve. Actually, that’s not true. God hadn’t ordained that as his time to go, but it did serve as a wake up call for me.

For years (YEARS!), people have tried to help me with my weight. I had a mentor and dear friend lovingly broach the subject a couple of years ago. And I remember giving my mother hell because she registered me for a weight loss class at her job, when I was in high school. I didn’t understand what her deal was. Wasn’t I pretty? Wasn’t I outgoing? Wasn’t I talented and involved in everything from church, school to even career-related pursuits? Didn’t I have boyfriends and go out on dates? For a 16-year-old, that was enough right? I didn’t get pregnant, got decent grades and people constantly wanted to know how my parents raised such wonderful kids! What else did she want?!

What I can humbly acknowledge now at 30-mumble, mumble, that my teenaged mind couldn’t is that my mother was concerned about my health, but my personality and the guilt trip I put on her was no match for her concern. I won that battle. But I really didn’t. She should’ve made me stay and see it through. That is not a deficit on her part, but all things are in divine order. It took me to be a real adult and now parent to really get it. Get why what she was trying to do then was important. Hindsight is 20/20 and it would’ve been SO much easier to have gone through this process with no bills, no baby, no responsibilities and the promise that they would’ve bought me whole new wardrobe when I reached my goal. No haps. It’s all on me now and I’m committed to making it happen.

But it hurts. Physically, I AM IN PAIN and it’s all because of Crossfit Pulse. I’ve never been a fitness girl. I don’t want to work out at Bally’s (or apparently CrossFit P’tree) with the model/video girl-types and their poom-poom shorts. Yes, it hurts, but it’s good. It’s necessary and it’s time. I got turned on to CrossFit by a girl at work. She did an article on this new fitness craze and after watching her (she happens to be a bit of a fitness queen herself) call out of work after doing a class, my curiosity was peaked. She said it hurt to get up. She said it hurt to even think about moving.

Yeah, I was curious, curious and scared. I get the concept of working muscles previously under used muscles causing discomfort, but all out pain? Hmmm. So I shared the CrossFit info with a friend and she found a CrossFit gym in our neighborhood and so the journey began.

Fast forward three weeks and here I am—in pain. The initial pain of the first workout went away after about a week (it really did hurt to sit on the toilet…I abused my bladder by forcing it to hold ungodly amounts of liquid, just so I wouldn’t have to sit (and get up from) the commode). But the thing with CrossFit is that it works something new (or in a different way) every time so you never plateau—and as a result, something is ALWAYS sore. This week it’s my calves and my biceps. Despite the pain (it really isn’t that bad) I can’t stop going. I wake up at 4:15 a.m. three times a week, to go and “get it in.” I get it in so Baby E doesn’t ever have to walk in and find me hovering on death's doorsteps from a preventable disease. I get it in because I have dreams of rocking my own pair of poom-poom shorts to the gym one day (actually, if I can get them on and look how I imagine I will, I will rock them to the grocery store, church*, hell, I’ll rock them to take out the trash!). I get it in because I owe my mother, for making it so hard for her when she tried to help me get it done all those years ago. I get it in because I want to be a good steward of the body and good health I’ve been blessed with. I get it in because it is the right thing to do. Get yours!

* Just kidding about rocking them to church…at least not in the sanctuary anyway.