Dropped Weights
This is going to sound really pathetic (because it is pathetic) but my left bicep is sore from carrying an average size plate with an average size breakfast quesadilla an average distance from the cafeteria in my office building (I’m spoiled) to my desk. I can run five, sometimes six (and I bet even seven) miles at a time, but I can’t carry breakfast across a building? I probably can’t even lift a crayon. This is bad news.
I use to have strong, non-Jell-O like arms. When I was in high school, my club swim team hired a woman named Judy (a former jujitsu champion who looked NOTHING like her name) to run us through resistance and weight training a few times a week. The more Judy beat me up, the faster I swam. After that intro to lifting, I kept it up on my own for awhile. Sometimes I’d dry off from a high school swim practice and lace up my gym shoes to head to the gym solo. I knew how my body responded to extra dry effort, and I liked it.
Now that I’m not relying on my arms to haul my body across a pool, I’m not relying on them to do much at all. My legs? They’re a different story. I’m proud of my legs; each twinge of ache is a reminder of the miles I put in the day before. Any ache in my core, back and arms is due to an unusually violent sneeze or sitting in my desk with the posture of Silly Puddy—I’m not proud of that.
The last time I lifted was when I baked a chocolate cake for no other reason than to lift my holiday spirits. Three Thursdays ago I did a full-body insanity workout at the gym with some co-workers. Three days after that I still felt how I imagine the Extreme Makeover: Wedding Edition ladies feel after all-over plastic surgery. Painnn. I don’t need to bulk up like my Gold’s Gym cohorts, but I want to be strong again; or at least be able to carry my breakfast like a champ.
I use to have strong, non-Jell-O like arms. When I was in high school, my club swim team hired a woman named Judy (a former jujitsu champion who looked NOTHING like her name) to run us through resistance and weight training a few times a week. The more Judy beat me up, the faster I swam. After that intro to lifting, I kept it up on my own for awhile. Sometimes I’d dry off from a high school swim practice and lace up my gym shoes to head to the gym solo. I knew how my body responded to extra dry effort, and I liked it.
Now that I’m not relying on my arms to haul my body across a pool, I’m not relying on them to do much at all. My legs? They’re a different story. I’m proud of my legs; each twinge of ache is a reminder of the miles I put in the day before. Any ache in my core, back and arms is due to an unusually violent sneeze or sitting in my desk with the posture of Silly Puddy—I’m not proud of that.
The last time I lifted was when I baked a chocolate cake for no other reason than to lift my holiday spirits. Three Thursdays ago I did a full-body insanity workout at the gym with some co-workers. Three days after that I still felt how I imagine the Extreme Makeover: Wedding Edition ladies feel after all-over plastic surgery. Painnn. I don’t need to bulk up like my Gold’s Gym cohorts, but I want to be strong again; or at least be able to carry my breakfast like a champ.