Patience.

So, it's true.  I'm not known for my patience.  I'm not.


I'm really, really not.


While most of every one of my friends and family knows this, it is still something we can chuckle about - enjoy a little light laugh over.  No one (to my knowledge) is ready to stage an intervention.


This leads to a confession: I'm a real *sshole on my subway commute. I am, but no one has known this but me.  Well, no one knew until I decided to write this post, but the word's out.  I'm a real jerk. I have no patience for bad behavior... or behavior that doesn't take others into account.  And by others, I mean me.


My survival method is New York City is to mumble under my breath or scream in my head, whichever allows more emotional bile to escape my body in a given moment. This behavior can be non-stop as I shuttle from home to work and home again.


Often, I have got a running commentary in my head that is so impatient and bitter, so unlike the self I like to admit to. When I witness behavior like in the pictures below (and p.s. these are borrowed images that roughly illustrate my experience) I find myself silently screeching things like:

"I really love the sound of your clipping your nails across the car from me." 

"Kid, your cuteness wore off before you opened your mouth to sing the entire score of "Annie."  And that is not a jungle gym.  Sit down, precious snowflake." 






 "Thanks for buying cheap headphones and cranking the volume so you could share your awful music with the entire subway car." 







•   



"Your standing smack dab in the middle of the doorway really helps speed up the loading and unloading.  Thanks, Mensa Men."  








"Hey thanks, lady leaning against the pole so other people can't hold on. I'll just jam my knuckles in around your back fat." 






 "Wow, you two, watching you make out and rub each other's bodies like genie lamps gives me exactly the lift I need in the morning."

"Stopping at the top of the stairs right in front of me so you can check your texts really helps me slow down and relax. Ommmm!"
(I used Kim Kardashian for this because she is my nemesis.  It only seemed right.)

And the kids who perform their dance-acrobatics show on the train... Man, hearing the words "Show time, show TIME!" makes me want to punch someone.

So. Last week, I went back for my 4th class  death wish at CrossFit Harlem.  I won't go into the entire routine, but know that we donned 50 lb. weight vests and did death squats while throwing 14 lb. medicine balls against the wall.  It was a BLAST. I celebrated the fact that I'd survived, but the shock wore off the next morning when I realized I couldn't bend anything.  I lumbered to the subway like Frankenstein, arms straight out ahead of me to balance and brace for a fall. And wouldn't you know, I became one of those people.  I couldn't help it; I couldn't move!  I had to stand smack in the middle of the doorway.  I had to lean against the pole and pretend not to feel the knuckles grinding into my back fat.  I started up the stairs in my regular 1st position because I like to run up the steps, but my legs seized up like the Tin Man's.


I think I heard some silent screaming behind me.

Not 20 anymore. Not even close.

I have to type quickly, because my muscles are starting to seize up and I'm not sure how long I have.

Do you hear that?  That's the sound of muscles screaming.  I never knew they did that.  They do.  Oh, they do~

I took my first CrossFit class tonight.

Have you heard of CrossFit?  You essentially pay someone to put you into traction.  That's probably unfair, because if I were in better shape, maybe I wouldn't be in such trouble now.  But here's the thing.  I  think - well, I thought - that I am in relatively decent shape.  I run!  I cycle! I ski!  I don't double over after walking up four flights of stairs!  I was sure I could hold my own in a one hour CrossFit class.  Puh-lease.

And then I met Syn at CrossFit Harlem.
There's a reason that their logo includes a skeleton.

The WOD (Workout of the Day) was "cardio," and when Syn wrote that on the blackboard, I inwardly exhaled.  Cardio is mine. I own cardio.

Ha!

First, we ran two laps around the armory next door.  Easy, breezy, beautiful.  I started feeling cocky.  I got this, I smirked.

Uh-oh.  Then we did cardio with weights, and not just my usual 3-5 pounds... no.  Syn gave me a 35 lb. bar with 15 lbs. on each side (that's 65 lbs. for my fellow lazy mathematicians).  I had to take that from chest to over my head 100 times in 6 minutes.  I'll tell you, time has never been so relative.  I'd read on the CrossFit Harlem website NOT to complain and NOT to give up, so I was prepared.  I lifted that bar 12 whole times over my head and then struggled to lift it the remaining 88 times about 3 inches off my chest, but I did it. Humbling.

p.s. The woman in front of me did a full 100 like she was brushing her teeth.  I'll be so sore tomorrow I won't be able to brush mine without whimpering.

Oh, but we weren't done with that bar yet.  Syn had us take the plate weight off, so that we were left with the weight bar.  We had to hold the bar at our chests and go down into a squat, and stay there until all nine of us had been checked for form.  I don't squat that low to tie a shoe anymore.  Every part of me was shaking. I was hoping that alone was the exercise, but at this point, I knew better.  Syn yelled at the other newbie and I was relieved that someone else was the last of the herd.  Terrible, but true.  Thank God for a weaker one!

Sure enough, there was more.  This was our starting position for the next 100. Our next round was to be lifting the bar from a low squat to up over our heads in a popcorn-popping, cardio-fast motion.  FAST!  Syn said to keep track of our number.  I may have miscounted.  A couple of the consecutive numbers in my head may have stuck together so that one lift over my head counted for two.  When I put down my bar after 100, it may have been a creative 100, but I will tell you, I am guilt-free.

Next up. Syn told us to grab weight vests.  I leaned down to pick one up with one hand, because really, what's it going to weigh?  20 lbs. tops, right?  Try 50.  I couldn't lift the thing over my head by myself, especially after the weightapalooza I'd just experienced.  I can't remember the name of the woman who helped me because I was delirious, but someone strapped me in, and we then had to run another 3 laps around the armory.

I managed to not finish in last place, which I felt was a huge coup.  I was so high at the end of the class that my body hadn't registered the impending pain.CrossFit Harlem did ask me to sign a waiver AFTER the class, and I could barely move my arms, but I still felt (or didn't feel) pretty good.

So, what did I decide to do?  That's right... jog on home.  I made it two blocks and then slowed to a lope.

I waddled up the 3 flights to our apartment, B-lined to the bathroom for ibuprofen, then collapsed.

Mike brought home a half-case of tequila and asked me to store the bottles above the kitchen cabinets.  I've never, ever come so close to dropping those bottles, which I must say are the closest things to children that I'll ever know.  But tonight, it was dangerous.  Dangerous!

Anyway, the bottom line is... I'm tightening up like the Tin Man.  I can't move.  I did manage to mix a margarita for myself, and thankfully my mouth is operable even as the rest of my body is shutting down.

Have I mentioned that I haven't planned for my classes tomorrow?
SMACK.