For most of you reading, you’re probably going to have to read the title of this post twice to believe it. To clarify: it’s true. I tried Crossfit. And I didn’t die. I didn’t even cry. Very much.
Here’s the thing: I’m pretty fit. I’m actually real real fit and quite dedicated to exercise. That said I normally walk the dog, ride a bike, do yoga, lift a weight here and there but what I don’t do is things called “snatches” or “swings” or “jumps”. I’m much more of a both feet on the ground kind of girl.
How the fuck does this even happen?
Well, you know. Sometimes you just end up at a Crossfit gym. I mean it could happen to anyone. One strange turn of events and then there you are at 8am, hanging out on a rubber mat wearing your most industrial sports bra to keep your big tits in check, yoga pants, orthopedic foot pads in both your running shoes (that you never run in), looking around at equipment that you’re pretty sure came straight out of a construction site while feeling like the fat kid in gym class that you in fact were 20-some years ago. Despite the everything’s-fucked look on your face, you’re surrounded by people who are, gulp, having fun. I mean that’s the only way I could describe it. Everyone else there was like, into it and welcoming and nice and all the guys had great asses.
Is someone ghostwriting for Maggie right now?
No, no I swear it’s me. Stay with me here. I went to an introductory-type class where there was a lot of breakdown of the exercises we would be doing as well as some one-on-one attention to form (or lack thereof) before we got started. None of the instruction made me any less terrified of swinging a kettle bell or jumping on a box. At some point this became quite clear to the coach. It went kind of like this:
“I’m terrified of this.”
“Why are you terrified of this?”
“Because it’s terrifying.”
I am not an easy client.
“Also, I have a strict no jumping policy.”
Sigh.
Plus I think I looked like I may burst into tears at any moment so would clearly need a little extra coddling to get me on top of that fucking box. And by that I mean there was no number of “you can do its!” to suffice. Here’s the thing, though, if a person is able to get me into a place where even I, the girl who gets injured getting up from her chair, am willing to get both feet off the floor at once then that person deserves a goddamn medal.
After ten very trepidatious box jumps (it was a pretty low fucking box, not gonna lie) coach Danny checked in with me.
[Insert fist bump] “How’s it goin’ Maggie?”
“I feel exactly like Bob in “What About Bob?” when they strap him to the sailboat and he screams ‘I’m sailing!’ I’M CROSSFITTING.”
“Mmm hmmm.”
[Insert coach Danny secretly questioning my mental capabilities now as well as my physical ones.]
It was at this point that my facial expression finally changed from the look of near-death to everything’s okay and I left feeling really good about it. Partially because it was over, partially because I’d tried something new, but largely because of the coach. I mean this guy was fucking awesome. So if you’re looking for a place to get started I couldn’t recommend Crossfit Kingfield in Minneapolis more highly (shameless plug). He got me to JUMP ON A FUCKING BOX. ME. And that shit defies the laws of physics in more ways than one.
Are you going back?
Easy fella. Easy….
