In breaking with tradition (two days in a row is tradition, right?), I did not work out in the morning yesterday. I would like to claim that was intentional and that I CHOSE to work out in the evening in order to be able to “bring it” with more intensity—but the truth is that I overslept in the morning. This seeming mistake led to a new and unexpected experience.
I spent all day actually looking forward to a workout.
Weird, I know. But it happened. You see, I’m the guy that decided to be a goalkeeper on my high school soccer team because it involved the least amount of running. That’s right—I’d rather take a knee to the head, get repeatedly kicked in the shins, and voluntarily throw my body in front of a solid object travelling at a ridiculously high rate of speed, just to avoid some additional running. That’s why it was so strange to spend the day looking forward to the torture I was going to put my body through in the evening.
Now, in the spirit of full disclosure, I should tell you this: for the first week, I decided only to do half-routines. This was done so that I could still function in society the day after the workout. It worked well. I hurt, but I also didn’t require the services of a night nurse or a jazzy chair after the workouts. So all in all, it was the right move for me. However—this is the beginning of Week 2: Full routines—total commitment. I’d given myself the call up. This was the big leagues.
Precariously perched on the precipice of pain provided by pushing and pulling, I pressed play.
The Chest & Back routine is divided into two rounds—12 exercises in each round. The mantra of Round 1 is “pace yourself”. Unfortunately, I paced myself like a kindergartener who ingested a Costco-sized sack of Fun Dip right before recess. When it came time for Round 2, I was spent. But I had made a commitment to myself, so I was going to finish one way or another.
Round 2’s mantra is “maximum reps”. By the time I grabbed the pull-up bar, I was hoping that maybe in my exhaustion I misunderstood Tony and he had said “maximum good intentions”. He didn’t. At least the word maximum conveys that you’re supposed to do as many as you possibly can. I definitely did that. Sometimes 3 is the max. I struggled through the entire round, but I made it to the end. As fate would have it, the final exercise was Dive Bomber Push-Ups. From what I understand, this is a popular exercise in the military. That should tell you something. The military also is fond of meals featuring powdered prime rib in a plastic bag, scrubbing urinals with toothbrushes, and drill sergeants that purvey unsavory rumors about your mother. Luckily the Dive Bombers were the end of the workout, because they were the end of me as well. I literally crashed on my face. I’ll wear a helmet with a facemask for Round 2 from now on.
When I finally summoned the strength to lift myself off the floor, there was a me-shaped puddle on the hard wood. At first, I thought it was sweat, but then I realized the truth. My muscles were crying. I would have consoled myself with a gentle pat on the back, but I think we all realize that wasn’t even remotely possible.
Thank goodness Plyometrics is next—WAIT–did I just say that?! Really? I must have hit my head harder than I thought.