So I stupidly sat down with He-who-trains, and told him about this problem... and tried to ignore the grin that spread across his face as I told him that I wanted to go all in for the next three months. I asked him to make a meal plan for me, which explains why there is stinky fish cooking away in my oven as we speak. I also told him that, in essence, he could do whatever he wanted to train me. He could get in my face, and push me harder than I wanted to go. He said (and I quote) "You won't like it." To which I replied with utmost sincerity, and even believed that I meant it: "What I like is irrelevant." Note to self: Uh, seriously... you said that? Out loud?
|He-who-trains thinks he's funny. Post |
workout instructions: "Hobble Home...Cuss me.. Ice...eat"
I'm pretty glad to have had a workout partner for this one, because we were both dripping with sweat, and this was definitely a misery loves company sort of event. But she rocks, and she's a great cheerleader. She'll gently correct my form which is a far superior thing to having He-who-trains do the form correcting. She'll lie to me and tell me I'm doing great and that I've got it. And I'll turn around and lie to her and tell her the same thing. This is a spectacular time to have a lying friend. I highly recommend it. It wasn't pretty, but we survived. And when He-who-trains came in to check on us and said "Planned assassinations of the gym nazi will not be tolerated" (and again, with that big stupid grin) we managed not to admit that we were too tired to think about killing him, or you know, think about anything. And nobody needed the aforementioned puke bag. That's a win, right?
Of course, because I shot off my mouth about wanting to run and how well my knees were doing, I wasn't done. I headed down the road for a jalk, which was spectacularly fun for a couple of reasons. 1) I hadn't run in 6 months. 2) My legs were jelly from all the plyometrics that I'd done. And oh yeah, 3) I had already used all my energy trying not to die. Of course, He-who-trains is also a sadist, so he ensured that I ran the road around the gym where I couldn't hide from all the gawking people driving by. At least I didn't yell "What?! Beet red looks good on me!" or "No, really, I swear I haven't been drinking and the fact that I don't have control of my muscles is perfectly normal." I had to spend a couple seconds walking here and there because of a side stitch, but it wasn't as bad as I guessed it would be. But then again, I was pretty much just pleased that I was still capable of being in an upright position and moving at all.
So I got what I said I wanted. On the upside, except a small twinge, my knees held up fine. And at the end, when he snarkily asked how I was, I could say... and mean... "I'm good." Being spent, having given more than I thought I had, leaving it all at the gym. Yeah, that's good.
New mantra until July: Bikini or Bust.
Oh, and this is my wallpaper these days, in case I'm tempted to cheat.