Monday 24 October 2016

Coffee Morning Whispers: Not being fit makes me very cross

Shallow DOF.
Shallow DOF.

Seeing my 79-year-old cousin on Facebook, lifting barbells at a Crossfit class like a 20-year-old convinced me. If she could do it, so could I.

“There’s a Crossfit in Celbridge,” I said to the girls. “I’m going to give it a go. I mean, I walk the dog every day so I’m reasonably fit and, anyway, how hard can it be?” Patsy, who was a fan of boot camps in her youth, sniggered knowingly into her jam doughnut.

That evening, I beat my fat ass into Lycra and headed off. I was greeted by Lorna, the owner and coach, who exuded such a glow of health and fitness that my low-slung buttocks slunk even further with shame

“We’ll start with a 400-metre run,” she said to the class. 

They all took off like hares. I lingered awaiting instruction. 

“You too,” she said, to someone else.

I looked behind me. There was no one else. It slowly dawned that she meant me. I took off like a hot snot but couldn’t catch up. I was slower than a three-legged sloth with asthma.

Back in the class it was straight into it. Lunges, burpees (don’t ask!), squats and crawls. 

The music pulsated and I was screaming inside. 

I was not fit. I wasn’t even aerobically fit. Worse, my muffin top was getting in the way of my sit ups. 

Halfway through the class, Scott, the second coach arrived. He looked like a cross between Conan the Destroyer and the navy seal who took out Osama bin Laden.

The pity on his face as I tried to stand up after a burpee cut through my heart. 

“How many have you done, Marie?” Lorna asked. 

“Ten,” I lied. 

I knew she knew, but I was beyond honesty. Beyond living, if the truth be told.

It was time for the 15-minute round up. They all grabbed barbells. Lorna gave me the lightest bar and attached two 2.5kg to each end. The woman beside me had 15kg on each end and was able to lift and spin them in her fingers like a cheerleader.

I wasn’t even lifting the bloody thing from the ground but from a frame on the wall. Even so, I staggered around like an elderly pig with a hangover until Lorna guided me towards a seat.

“Now, stand up again,” she said. The woman was trying to kill me.

Finally, the hour was over and Lorna asked had I enjoyed it.

“Yes,” I lied again. I didn’t mention that I couldn’t actually feel my legs.

The following Monday I was back in the Lycra again.

What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger — I hope!

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