Thursday, July 7, 2011

I Quit. Or, it Sucks to Suck.


Growing up, I did well in school, but outside of academia I was a mess.  I danced for a handful of years, dabbling in jazz, acro, and ballet.  All that remains of those years--as my friends who've seen me on the dance floor can attest--are a few snapshots of me in overwrought costumes and garish pancake makeup.  I took up horseback riding for a year or two, played basketball for two seasons, made two attempts at track, and survived one year of cross country.  And if there is a common thread among all these activities, it was that I sucked at all of them.

During horse camp, I was given Buddy, one of the most seasoned and calm horses they had.  During an exercise in the indoor ring, he bolted, and I clung on for dear life.  One of the adults stopped us before we made it outside.  When playing rec basketball, it took me almost a whole season to make my first bucket during a game, an occasion so momentous that my coach (also my best friend's dad) leapt up from the bench and hugged me.  Track was forgettable, and cross country became a months-long mind-fuck.  We pounded the pavement day in and day out--no cross-training--and it got to the point where I couldn't distinguish between what was just soreness and what was an actual injury.  I sat out a few races, and placed in the bottom in others.  Running is not a contact sport, yet I still managed to sustain a head injury.  During our summer camp, I collided with two of the members of the boys' team while playing ultimate frisbee, landing on my head and neck (or one or the other--I don't remember because I blacked out for about a minute).    My coach was pretty concerned; the boys' coach, who pretty much thought I was a waste of space, berated me for skipping the next run over a "pinched nerve."

So yes, I was terrible at all these things.  But the other common thread among those pursuits was that they didn't last very long; I never gave myself enough time to be un-terrible.  I was a quitter; I probably knew it then, and I definitely know it now.  It's a big regret; what if I had stuck with one of those activities for the long haul?  Maybe I would have improved, earned my varsity letter, earned a medal other than "Participation."  But in the back of mind, I can't help thinking that I still would have sucked at whichever pursuit I chose, no matter what.

I've written extensively about CrossFit in the past, what it is, and why I do it.  Since writing those posts, I've changed gyms--twice.  I started at CF Pittsburgh in the fall, and have been coming to CF Central while I'm here in Austin.  In total, I've been doing this thing for two years and--surprise--I still suck.




The impetus for this post was the workout I had this afternoon.  It was a "chipper," meaning you have to perform several reps of a grueling exercise before moving on to the next one.  And the next one.  And on and on until you finish, and you feel like your body's been through a wood chipper.  To set the scene: the gym is crowded, full of eager, fit people.  The temp is in the mid-to-high 90s and sunny.  But sunny makes it sound too cheerful, when really it feels like you're being baked alive.  So I go through this chipper, and I end up dead last.  I'm on the final task, which takes place in full sun, and involves holding a 25-pound plate over my head while I lunge 150 feet.  "It's too heavy," I say to someone, who's standing over me, shouting words of encouragement.  I'm mad, frustrated, because I'm using the same plate that all the other, stronger women used, the ones who are actual athletes.  Then I say the worst possible thing, which is that I feel like I'm about to throw up.  Which is how I really do feel.  But it's a red flag; I could have heat exhaustion, so the coach instructs me to move into the shade.  I take some water, then go back out and finish--because not finishing would have been unacceptable; I only had 50 feet to go.  I'm done in 19:04, the slowest time of the day.  My classmates are almost done with their cool-down stretches when I head back in, lock myself into the bathroom, and dry heave into the toilet.

I wrote down my stats and left, unable to look at anyone.  I don't know them, really, I'm still pretty new, and I'm afraid they all think I'm a complainer, a loser, a last-place finisher.  In reality, I know that they're all adults, and are just concerned with getting in their own workouts before going back to work and continuing on with their lives.  But I still feel like that high school kid, in a cross country meet lagging several minutes behind my teammates, crossing the finish line and crying--because my entire body ached, because no one asked me to homecoming, or would.  Because I sucked.

Of course, if I step back and get some perspective, I'm forced to ask myself: what does it matter if I finish last in a workout?  I'm there to get exercise; I have other, more pressing, matters to worry about in life.  But I just can't ignore my inner Snip critic--shouldn't you be better by now?  I don't have any illusions of grandeur, of being the best, but I would like to be on par with my classmates, be somewhere comfortably in the middle.  I dread partnering up for weightlifting, as most of the women can squat, deadlift, and clean twice what I can.  There's always a major reshuffling of weights, and I have to apologize profusely to whichever poor soul gets teamed up with me.  They're always very nice and gracious, but I wouldn't blame them if they secretly wanted to strangle me.

I try to smile and be positive, because if there's anything worse than someone who sucks at stuff, it's someone who complains while doing said stuff (which I like to call being a whiny weinerface).  And I think that's where I'm really frustrated with myself right now.  I regret saying the weight was too heavy, or that I felt sick.  I regret complaining about slipping off the pull-up bar.  Though, really, I was completely slick with sweat and there was no chalk.  The fact is, even though it was true, everyone else was dealing with the same issue--I'm just the one who griped about it.  It's like being under physical duress erases any filter I have; what I think, I say.  And most of it is not very positive.

Complaining is just a way of making excuses, trying to rationalize why everyone else is leaving me in the dust.  The other day I saw someone cheating a movement during a workout; someone who inevitably passed me up, beating me to the finish.  My gut reaction was to call out, "Hey, I saw that!" and I did.  It's what a coach would have done, I thought.  When I told my fiance the story later in the day, his reaction was pretty much, "Why does it matter?"  I felt terribly embarrassed then.  While I was thinking of it from a helping or coaching perspective, if I were really honest with myself, I was probably a bit annoyed too.  Once again I was falling behind the others, and I was frustrated.

So why I am so easily agitated, so competitive, especially when it doesn't really matter?  I've heard the analogy before that people are like Russian nesting dolls, where one fits inside of the other--though I'm 27 now, the 16-year-old me and the 12-year-old me are all still inside somewhere.   Maybe I still feel like I have something to prove to that bearish cross country coach, to show him that I'm not weak and whiny.
 
But perhaps it also has something to do with my chosen path.  Writing isn't exactly the most gratifying career choice, personally or professionally.  Personally you're always revising, beating yourself up, wondering if you're getting anywhere.  And writing professionally is more like a pipe dream than a career path.  You may never get published by a magazine, or receive a book deal.  And even if you do, your publisher may not make you a priority, or you won't get reviewed, or you get bad reviews, or you'll only sell a dozen copies.  (Or this could happen, as I read on The Millions today.)  So it seems wise to measure success in other ways, in other realms.  Being able to beat most of your fellow writers in a pushup contest isn't much, but at least it's something.

Maybe that's it.  As I receive a steady trickle of rejection letters from lit magazines, I'm just struggling to find my worth elsewhere.  I want to focus on something quantifiable, achievable, and CrossFit promises those things.  And when I'm sweating it out--hurting, indignant--I'm not feeling simple frustration at the workout, but at everything, at sucking at life in general.  At still not being asked to the metaphorical dance.

But I can take solace in the fact that I've grown a bit since my school days.  Even if I can be a whiny weinerface sometimes, I don't plan on quitting CrossFit now or any time soon.  (My apologies to my weightlifting partners, present and future.)  The times I feel good, the rare days I can actually note an improvement, make me feel too good.  And maybe Jennifer Egan will challenge me to a pushup competition one day; in which case, I'll be prepared.

3 comments:

  1. I actually haven't heard that nesting doll thing before. Cute.

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  2. I always thoroughly enjoyed your company at the SBK box. And for what it's worth I was and still am madly jealous of your running abilities.

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  3. Dude. you do NOT suck. I remember you kicked my ass at that crazy kb-swing/400m sprint workout in Sept 09. You are one *fast* mofo. You're getting stronger, and getting more "comfortable being uncomfortable," as they say, and for that you should be proud of yourself. And like Sarah I always loved working out with you. You bring it every time, and that's all that matters. We miss you!

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