Not Smelling Like R Kelly’s Sheets and Other Lofty Goals

If you were hoping to read an impassioned speech on the evils of sexual harassment and assault, I’m sorry. This blog post isn’t about that. This blog post is about piss, my piss. If you don’t understand the reference you clearly haven’t acquainted yourself with the lyrical genius of Macklemore, specifically his song Thrift Shop. Go do that now, and then come back. This blog ain’t going nowhere.

I came home crying from CrossFit this morning. Tears were the second form of secretions I lost control of today. The first was piss. This is not new for me at least not since I had my son.

We have a trampoline park in town and I have never joined my child for the bouncy enjoyment. When he was really little and I explained that bouncing makes me pee he earnestly assured me they have a bathroom and I’d be fine. Oh, you sweet tiny man with a long urethra that you can angle up to defy gravity…. My urethra is about an inch and a half, and it points straight to the center of the earth, the very source of earth’s gravity. Additionally, I pushed a giant noggin through its next door neighbor about nine years ago. I don’t want to brag but I can push a baby out like a rock star. That baby popped out in three pushes. I hemorrhages my eyes I pushed so hard. I looked like I’d been strangled, and I’m convinced I eternally rearranged my innards.

Approximately, one in three women between 35 to 55 years have some stress incontinence. Over age 55 the percent only increases. Stress incontinence is considered leaking or dripping urine when sneezing, laughing, jumping, lifting, etc. For me it’s only a problem when I jump. Jumping rope is my kryptonite nemesis. The evil male trolls that invented CrossFit are in love with jumping rope. Yeah F—- those dudes.

I’m going to go ahead and declare that jumping rope is an ageist-sexist exercise. If one in three men pissed themselves during a particular exercise no one would do that exercise. Think about it. NO ONE WOULD DO THAT EXERCISE. Once again F—- those dudes.

So there I was at 7am with yoga pants clearly soaked at least halfway to my knees. I don’t do double unders either. I do singles, and I can barely do those because I’m so distracted by my ever increasing drip rate. At some point it ceases to be an effective workout. It’s mostly an exercise in humiliation and misery and has become my official deal breaker with CrossFit. F—- those dudes. All the dudes. If you have a penis, I resent you.

When I started CrossFit I had three goals;

  1. Build muscle mass.
  2. Build bone density.
  3. Look good enough to do it with the lights on.

I have a new goal.

     4. Don’t smell like R Kelly’s sheets.

Jumping rope predisposes me to fail at goal #4.

By the time I arrived home I had regressed to a three year olds level of irrational stubborn frustration. I found my husband in the shower and proceeded to berate the evil bearer of a penis on my mornings trauma and how I’m NOT GOING BACK THERE IF THEY EXPECT ME TO JUMP ROPE. Then I left to take my own shower and wash my piss off like the sexy classy woman I am.

My husband and I have traditionally had some intense conversations while one of us is showering. Some of them result in life changing behaviors or decisions. When we were newlyweds I was the clinical director of a facility and worked ALL the time. I was supposed to have a Saturday off with him, but someone called in sick and I couldn’t get it covered. So there I was crying the shower because I had to go cover another shift. He popped his head in and looked at me sympathetically. With the best of intentions he said “Awe Babe, even your boobs look sad”. I quit that job within the month. I’m willing to work hard and go the extra mile, but not if it gives me sad boobs.

Within five minutes of my melt down during his shower, he was sticking his head in my shower and doing his absolute best to comfort me while holding back laughter.

“They have a surgery” he offered.

“I’m not going under general anesthesia so I can jump rope! I fail to see the benefit over the risk!” Of all the first world problems…..

He tried several other solutions all of which I dismissed, because I was still an angry three year old, and angry three year olds are not solution oriented. Plus it’s not like I haven’t tried exercises or over the counter interventions. To be honest some of those things have made it worse. However, I have not tried physical therapy which probably makes the most clinical sense, and I have friends that swear by it. Garry brought physical therapy up as well, but I was still playing by preschool rules and stubbornly told him it wasn’t going to happen.

Throughout the day I have received multiple text on how sexy and beautiful I am (in spite of my incontinence and personality issues). As a result I have forgiven him for his impeccable bladder control and I am feeling less frosty to his earlier suggestions.

In defense of CrossFit, no one MAKES you do anything. In fact it’s been my experience that they work very hard to ensure you push yourself but in no way compromise your health and safety. I’m fully aware that all I have to do is ask a coach to give me an alternative to jumping rope, but in the moment, rage born from humiliation is more fun than reason or problem solving.

If the last three years have taught me anything it’s that somethings aren’t worth it. Nobody is or ever will pay me to jump rope. It’s completely replaceable in my life. I have no fitness goals that require me to jump rope. In fact, as of today I have a no piss policy and jumping rope is the prime violator, so it can piss off. That said, I’m going to try the physical therapy because there is nothing wrong with a healthier pelvis, and if I can jump on a trampoline with my kid or even someday do a double under it might be nice. In the last few years I’ve also learned that there’s nothing wrong with prevention and taking control of what you can, or at least giving it your best shot. In the meantime that cute pink jump rope I bought can F— it!

Why CrossFit? Why Now?

The first time I heard about CrossFit was from my brother in law Kyle who had gone to a WOD with his soon to be mother in law (whom we lovingly call Christmas Carol). Christmas Carol had started doing CrossFit and was hugely successful with her overall fitness and weight loss. Kyle, who is a bit of a beast, figured he’d try a class and crush it. Kyle tried it, probably crushed it, and promptly threw up. This was nearly a decade ago, I was pregnant, vomiting daily already, and not at all looking for a new exercise program. Kyle however was hooked on this new emesis producing fitness regime.

Alice, Kyle’s soon to be wife, joined shortly after Kyle. I remember Alice telling me she had to have her wedding dress altered because she had not anticipated how much CrossFit would change her measurements. By this time I was trying to lose the baby weight and getting my boobs to fit into anything and not look obscene was a miracle. I contemplated CrossFit briefly, but I wasn’t sure it would pair well with lactation. Additionally, my dad was dying, I was a new mom and working full time. Sandwich generation guilt prohibited me from taking on anything that meant less time with my dad or son. Meanwhile Garry was all in. He went from 0 to 60 overnight and I was not prepared or supportive, but I was very resentful.

Garry completed his “check off session” and literally HAD to go to CrossFit five days a week. This was quickly followed by some new fresh hell he called the paleo diet. Apparently paleo people who had not discovered corn or potatoes, BUT were master brewers and distillers who died at the ripe old age of 35 had cornered some kind of market on healthy eating, and we were going to emulate them. Garry declared himself Paleo one night before bed, and woke up the next morning with nothing he could eat available in our home except maybe a banana and some frozen breast milk.  I found it hilariously unrealistic and figured he’d give it up like his plan of opening a bar on a beach in Thailand, but he did not. HE ACTUALLY WENT PALEO. He was Paleo for years. I complained incessantly, but I started cooking paleo. I can do amazing things with a plantain (insert inappropriate joke here). I even tried the paleo diet for a solid month, and have never been more homicidal in my life, aside from my first trimester because I am a very angry pregnant woman.

For those of you who knew me during this period you knew that I hated two things, CrossFit and the Paleo diet. I declared CrossFit a cult. In my mind it met the definition of a cult because it took all our money, told him what to eat and worse still stole his relationship with family. I was so convinced that the later was true that I did a time study on how much of BD’s life Garry was missing while he was at CrossFit. I like data. I love anything measurable, peer reviewed, and if possible replicated in a lab. You rarely hear me use the word “anecdotal” without immediately following it with the words “bull” and “shit”. For example I will frequently say things like “that’s just anecdotal bullshit” or “anecdotal evidence is bull shit”. So I gathered the data and formatted a point by point presentation on how CrossFit was robbing our son of his father. Data is best when paired with a story to support the data. Having been a hospice nurse for 15 years I am absolutely swimming in stories of what people do and don’t regret at the end of their lives. Let’s just say everyone wishes they spent more time with their kids and no one has ever said “I wish I worked out more”.

I like to pride myself on my powers of persuasion and I’m usually successful because I’m willing to give a little. If everyone walks away feeling like they “won” something deals are more likely to hold. The base of my argument was not that he leave CrossFit entirely or give up the Paleo diet, but it was to cut back from 5 days a week to 3. I gave my presentation and presented my data in WEEKS a year not spent with BD. WEEKS not hours, WEEKS. I was actually pretty proud of myself. He didn’t budge. He defended his position by stating that he was doing all of this so he is in good enough shape to DO all the things he longed to do with BD as he grew up, such as rafting and snowboarding or whatever BD wanted to do. He was simply playing the long game and the time away would pay off in time together later.  Needless to say, Garry has unrepentantly been going to CrossFit five days a week for the last eight years. Not that anyone is supposed to win or lose at marriage, but if you’re keeping score, I might be losing.

About three years ago I signed myself up for adult beginner swimming through the city. I took swimming lessons as a kid, but I am and always have been deathly afraid of sharks in all bodies of water. I know it’s not rational, that’s why it’s a phobia. As a kid this notion grossly impeded my advancement through swimming lessons. To this day I’m no longer afraid sharks will show up in puddles or the bathtub, but I’m pretty sure they are everywhere else. So although I can swim, I’m not very good at it. Oddly enough I have no fear of drowning, which being in a landlocked state and married to a raft guide is probably much more likely to happen.

It’s being married to a raft guide and giving birth to a human fish that made me decide I needed to learn to swim, and swim well. That and I’ve basically had an orthopedic surgeon on retainer since I was twenty-one. Swimming can be done long into life with minimal risk of injury and that seemed about perfect for a girl like me. I’ve become a regular at the senior center. I swim at least three times a week, and I’m pretty solid. But my bubble was burst when my knee started hurting so bad I was walking with a limp. The only time it didn’t hurt was when I was swimming. I was pretty sure I needed another surgery, but opted for the steroid injection and physical therapy instead. In physical therapy we reviewed all the great things about swimming but kept coming back to the fact that swimming is non-weight bearing, and it doesn’t do much for bone density or muscle mass, and muscle mass is what I need to compensate for my genetically inferior knees. Damn it. CrossFit builds muscle mass.

Over the years I have created several theories about CrossFit that have not held up under scrutiny. As a result I’ve decided my favorite pie is humble pie, because I eat so much of it. I like to wash it down with tequila and Xanax. Delicious.  I think I’ve mentioned that I like data. I spend a lot of time with data at work and in my free time I read every study and journal article I can on melanoma. I also dabble in literature related to cancer survival rates and recurrence. It’s actually an exciting time in the world of cancer. Survival rates are increasing and prognosis in becoming a moving target with new treatments. Currently there is a growing interest in making sure cancer survivors are able to age in a healthy way. We never worried about their long term cardiovascular health when they weren’t expected to live long enough for it be a problem. The day of telling them to eat whatever they want because calories are calories, or to only exercise if they feel like it are gone. Recently there was a study on breast cancer recurrence that showed women who workout five days a week, even if it’s a brisk half hour walk had a 30% decrease recurrence of breast cancer than their counterparts who worked out three days a week. THIRTY PERCENT! That’s what we call statistically significant. It didn’t matter how many hours a week they worked out. The data clearly demonstrated that working out five days a week was key. Remember my little time study tantrum about Garry working out five days a week??? Humble pie is delicious. Those extra hours at the gym are theoretically giving my son years with his dad that he may not have had otherwise. I LOVE humble pie. So tasty!

To make a long story longer I joined CrossFit three weeks ago, and I have never been so grateful for our new comfort height toilet seat. I also realize that for the last eight years when my husband would tell me what he did at crossfit I was obviously tuning him out.  For one thing they speak their own language, and I don’t speak crossfit. Additionally, hearing about someone else’s workout is boring. Nobody wants a play by play of your yoga poses anymore than they want to hear about your reps and Rx and PR’s (see they have their own language). I have decided it’s only a matter of time before my boob/boobs fall out of my top while attempting one of the many horrible inverted exercises they make you do. I spend most of the pre-workout huddle questioning my life choices and thinking I’ve made a mistake that I dearly regret. BUT life between the workouts is better. It’s a new thing I share with my husband, and it’s palpable how much he loves sharing this part of his life with me. My waist is smaller. I will need new pants and swimsuits sooner than later. I think my kid is proud of his mom. More importantly, I’m proud of myself. I used to be pretty competitive. I loved competing in martial arts, and my husband has always said “you’re a good little athlete when you want to be”. It’s like waking up. This feels like me. I feel like me. I’m going to bitch and moan about it but I’m going to keep going back, and that speaks for itself.