One way to make a day go by fast is to cram it with appointments back to back, all over hell and yon, and break my One Thing A Day rule. And then write about it, which counts as a Thing.
Today started off with the alarm in Weekday Mode, which is at 5:30AM. I know. Hideous. However, I cannot wake-up and start doing geometric proofs, let alone string words together to form a sentence for about 90 minutes after waking. Hell, I cannot even remember if I gave Duke his meds within 90 seconds of shoving them down his throat. I need the extra time to actually wake up, and more than likely I will still be rushing and be late. Been this way my whole life, so at least I am consistent.
I also needed the extra time to pack a bag with a change of clothes and all my make-up and toiletries because I was leaving the house in work-out gear. At 7AM. In questionable weather. To go work out.
With the Mudder less than three weeks away, one of the local Hunnies and I decided to do a torture, er, training session with one of the coaches from her boot camp. We planned to meet in Golden Gate Park, which has its own micro climates depending on which patch you find yourself, and like they say in New Mexico, if you don’t like the weather, wait five minutes. I checked the weather online and found out that it was not cold or windy, but just described “foggy.” That I can handle.
But then I got to the bridge:
The park was just as slime fogged as the bridge, but now we had to get out of our cozy cars and exercise in it. Once I am sweating/dirty/wet/scraped/mosquito bitten/aching I have no problem just being a mess. But there is a definitive time delay filled with my whinging, tiptoeing, tentative protests and worry about clothing stains. Today was no exception. Realizing I would have to cross a field of mist drenched four-inch grass and clover, I gulped down that dread anticipating the water seeping into my shoes and drenching my socks and feet. I am also the person that will hold a shot of Nyquil in my hand for hours, miserably sick, just not wanting to choke it down even though relief will soon follow only because I hate the taste.
We got to the workout spot and torture commenced. Most of it came for me in the form of a TWENTY FIVE POUND medicine ball that we were made to shoot like a basketball from a deep-kneed squat, and then do an axe chopper with it, slamming it down from over our heads into the ground, oh and just for fun, squats with a reverse bicep curl. 20 reps and two sets each. Are you f’ing kidding me? Have you seen my upper body? NOODLES for arms. Not that this was about upper body strength, yar yar yar, use your legs! And your core! And your back! F*CK YOU TWENTY FIVE POUND MEDICINE BALL!!! I do think I would have done way better with even five pounds less, but dammit to hell, I did get it done, and now know where my lats are.
After an extremely satisfying two rounds of spar hitting in gloves into the trainer’s pads, we finished up. I must say, my right punch was starting to develop some feisty accuracy and I took his direction on adjustments really well. I looked down and was covered in sweat, sand, dirt, and even some blood and bug bites. Also a big smile.
It was awesome, second only the warm shower in which actual dirt went down the drain.