3.2.1... YOGA!

Yoga.  Yoga is not an exercise that is conducive to the CrossFitter lifestyle for oh-so-many reasons.  Serene music opposed to death metal jam.    Words like “Chaturanga” and other un-comprehendible bullshit instead of “Lift it Muther Fucker!”   “Final Savasanawhathefuck” meditation instead of laying face first in a trash can vomiting your brains out while gasping for air.  But you know what... I can be all serene and shit.  Bring it on!

Where to start??  Holy shit balls it was hot in the room, and humid as a muther fucker.  Like 120 fucking degrees.  I had ass sweat before we even started. In the class, women... women... and more women.  Skinny, bendy women wearing tight pants and tiny weenie little bras.  I REALLY was not in my element.  I immediately cased the room and assured myself I could kick the shit out of each and every one of them.  I’m talking bar fight, not WOD (first un-yogi thought).  We hadn’t even started yet and I was miserable hot, sweating in unsanitary places and ready to pick a fight with the first peaceful minded bendy bitch that looked at me.  

Of course, being the shy, wall-flower like girl I am I picked a spot in the front of the room.  Ya know why?  Because I really don’t give a fuck!  If I’m going to suck at something, I’m going to suck it BIG with pride in the front of the whole fucking room.

Within minutes I was really fucking light headed (I’m pretty sure I was sweating cerebral spinal fluid and about to die).  Then, some anorexic chick with a figure of a prepubescent boy, wearing ass tight, white pants, put her mat next to mine.  Might I just mention... note to all yoga loving babes who are reading this (very important):  DO NOT WEAR WHITE!!!.  I could see this chick’s vag and she hadn’t even started sweating yet.  Quadruple fucking EWW!  The first thought that entered my mind.  “OH my god, I’m gonna end up writing about this chick’s snatch on my blog.”  

Soon, the yogi-riffic (skinny bitch) instructor came in all happy and shit.  We all assumed “Child’s Pose” while she told us the secrets to peaceful bliss.  Then it began...

I didn’t find any part of this practice enlightening.  If anything... I was really mad.  Mad that I’m the least flexible person ever.  Mad that I was so fucking slippery I couldn’t successfully grab an appendage and maintain grip.  Mad that I’m a fucking CrossFitter (I think I’m invincible) and I’m getting my ass kicked by stretching!  Mad that my inner yogi screamed “FUCK!”  when I fell from Warrior II pose (not in my inside-voice).  

Another note to all yogis, male or female:  WASH YOUR FUCKING FEET.  It’s really fucking nasty to smell someone’s stanky feet when you’re face is all up in their shit.  I’m face down on the floor doing some stupid superman shit and this chick’s nasty bunion covered piggies we’re invading my breathing space.  Nasty shit.  

Since I’m so full of advise... BLOW YOUR FUCKING NOSE.  The last thing I want to hear when I’m all serene and shit is your booger whistling dixie while you’re performing your Darth Vader breathing.  Not cool.

Now I’m going to return to my white pants yogi friend.  It was like a train crash.  Completely horrific but I couldn’t stop staring.  Her VAGINA was right there.  Just a thin piece of white fabric which had now become see through due to excessive sweating (I think I literally just threw up my chicken kabobs from dinner).  I will never think of “Happy Baby Pose” the same ever again.  Oops... just puked again.   

Might I mention... I used to do yoga four times a week until I got a fucking life and started CROSSFIT.  (This has nothing to do with me getting my ass handed to me at yoga and NEVER excelling.  Nothing.) ;0)

OMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM

Deadlifts and Duct Tape

Moments into today’s WOD... panic set it.  FUCK!  I didn’t change my bra!  

I wander the house in some pathetic, non supportive boobie garment that does NADA for support.  But... there I was, attempting to run 500, with “The Girls” out of control.  Not fucking funny.  I resorted to self support - otherwise known as running holding my titties.  I have no shame.

Then the real horror set in.  Today’s WOD is deadlifts and box jumps!?!  Double fuck.  Doing a box jump with big knockers and no support is like taking a baseball to the titties with every jump.  In other words.  UNcomfortable.  AND... today is one of the few days I get to shine.  I absolutely suck at 99.8% of CrossFit... but I have a shit heavy deadlift.  That equates to me NOT sucking at this WOD.  I had to take action.  I refuse to be defeated by a large set of bosoms.

This is where I got creative.  Trying to hold my boobs and manage high box jumps wasn’t going to cut it.  I lack coordination and skill so I need all the balance I can get.  


Duct tape?  Hell ya!


Pride?  Naw.  This shit was functional.  The “straps” were a critical component for boobie control.  As you can clearly see, that alpha boobie (reference A Little Nip Tuck, Lift and Suck) is being a spiteful little bitch and eking her way out of the contraption.  In all... this was a  great solution.  Fuck vanity.    

I rocked this WOD in 6:48 

21-15-9 

185# deadlifts

20” box jumps

I should patent this shit.

Ass Scab

I wrote this a while back.  It came up during today's warm up so I had to post it.  (Shout out to Carissa!)

I’ve coined this lovely term for a special condition that is most unique to the CrossFitting experience.  All you need for your very own condition of ‘Ass Scab’ is an Abmat and dozens of sit-ups.  This pesky condition sneaks up on you... typically when you’re in the shower - when that hot water hits the fresh abrasion.  The adrenaline of the moment (shit tons of sit ups) allows the condition to go unnoticed until it’s too late.  If you’re lucky like me you’ve already developed an unsightly ass callus to defend against the Ass Scab.  (God only knows what kinky shit my massage therapist thinks I’m into.)  A fresh Ass Scab will leave you uncomfortable for days... worse case scenario, a strange gait and difficulty sitting.  

But.. it’s all worth it because beneath the unsightly chub of my muffin-top midsection I’m pretty sure there’s an eight pack of killer abs.  YEAH! 

The Rapture

The morning after... the sleepover from hell.

I thought it was a good idea.  I was the first to brave a group sleepover with a bunch of six year olds. I’m a fucking moron.... an exhausted one at that.

It started all right.  I filled them with pizza and Sprite.  No biggie.  The Ex came over to help chaperone the beasts.  That was a fucking failure.  He stood, catatonic, on the outskirts of the chaos.  A deer in headlights that didn’t lift a finger to help.  

The first movie was a failure.  The panic started creeping in as anarchy began.  (Once again, The Ex sat there... drooling).  I saved the day with Kung Fu Panda.  Mid movie I served ice cream cake.  More sugar!  All was well until the movie ended.  The kids were fucking riled up.  All of the sudden they were all Bruce Lee (minus coordination, skill and proprioception).  Once the pseudo violence began The Ex curled into the fetal position.  

Let me step back a moment.   Once the pack was established this was the breakdown of five:  Loud Kid, Narc/Softie, Know-it-all, Wallflower and Psycho Birthday Boy (mine).  

Did I mention... we also have four dogs right now.  One is a vicious three-legged dachshund who loves to attack children.  Just to add an element of surprise and danger she was randomly released from her prison in the bedroom.  I caught her, several times, eyeballing the fresh meat, ready to take a bite. 

The Softie kiddo has an “attentive” mommy (who might I mention, isn’t fond of me).    Of course, as luck might have it, Softie took a knee to the face during the Kung Fu fighting.  There was no apparent damage and blood hadn’t been shed (typically my requirements for intervention).  Within 30 seconds my cell phone beeped - his mom was picking him up in 10 minutes.  FUCK!  A pack of ice and a little bribery later... good as new.  Not.  

So,  one down... four to go and 13 more hours of hell.  

Loud Kid, I predict, will be the chubby, beer guzzling frat boy who has an affinity for getting naked in public.  (Don’t get me wrong I like all of these kids - I’m just honest).  At one point I caught him naked, underwear on head, streaking through the basement.  What did I tell ya?  

Know-it-all, well, he knew everything and was kind enough to inform me of my mis-guidance.  In his superior state he DOES NOT have to listen to rules and threats are mere suggestions of the invalid kind.  That shit didn’t fly and little dude lost his cake privileges (Ashley - 1, Know-it-all - 0).  He then informed me, “I don’t like cake anyway.”  (Reset... 0-0).  Since rules didn’t apply to this nimble little kiddo I found him hanging from the second floor banister on several occasions. 

Wallflower... did nothing of interest.

Psycho Birthday Boy.  Well, he’s fucking crazy but I’m used to his bullshit.  

8:20pm - Kids call parents and pretend they are going to bed.

8:30pm -  Ex was excused.  I think he was crying.

9:00pm - Diabolically bad RockBand with temporary breaks between fighting for instrument domination.

9:40pm - I naively thought that leaving the crazy bastards in a room, they would just fall asleep.  Not the case.  

10pm - Me (mentally) chanting... “I will not be defeated.  I will NOT be defeated.” 

10:30pm - Blatant begging for peace and quiet. (Repeated many times)

10:34pm - Praying for ascension!!

10:40pm - Rearranging living room into sleeping space because all the kiddos migrated upstairs.

10:50pm - Exhaustion and narcolepsy kicking in.  Flashbacks of infancy as I try to soothe four exhausted, sugar crashing kids.  

10:51 - Final decision made.  I DO NOT want more kids.  

10:55pm - One down, three to go.

10:56pm - Two crying (one is me).

11:20pm - Four asleep.  I decide to sleep in living room to 1) avoid the possibility of one sleep walking into traffic 2) to keep them safe from three-legged Cujo in case she escapes.  

5am - First kiddo ready to eat, play and drive me crazy.

Morning spent cleaning urine out of new wool carpet in living room.  Fucking priceless.

Excising a Dysmorphia Demon

This one is some deep shit... if you came to laugh, today is not for you.  I contemplated not posting this.  Then I thought... FUCK IT this is MY blog!  I don’t mind people knowing who I am and what I think.  So... if you choose to move ahead.  Hold on.  This one hurts...

I feel like an ocean of panic; an ebb and flow of fear as consistent as the tides.  I’m worried about this surgery.... I’m more worried about what’s leading me to it and where it will go from there.

I’m well aware I have a dysmorphia issue.  What I see in the mirror is not representative of what the rest of the world experiences in my presence.  I find my reflection an assault on the eyes.  I see an ugly monster.  I see obesity.  I’m choosing to intervene on a portion of that vision in order to find long overdue acceptance.  But I’m a realist...

Since I was a small child I can remember the deep seeded hate that I felt toward my body, mainly my stomach.  I’ve tried unsuccessfully to short circuit the emotional pain emanating from it.  The only time that I have loved and cherished this piece of flesh was when I carried my son.  I wish I could find that love for it now... it was his vessel into this world.  Instead, the moment he was given the space to breathe his own air... I once again saw it as a malignancy; something to be hated.  Now that it’s surgical removal is imminent... I can feel the malignancy traveling elsewhere; finding a new target to hate and obsess over.  Last week’s phone call to the doctor’s office, the agreement to move forward, created a shift.  Since setting the date to go under the knife, I’ve felt the dark cloud shift.  The malignancy stretched and grew... uprooted itself and locked in on a new target.  An area that is not being modified is set to take the emotional wrath of something deep, something angry, that still lingers trapped inside of me.  I’m fascinated by this awareness but yet have no control over the irrational response when I find myself once again going under in a sea of self loathing.  

The neuroses I experience and manage every day are far louder than those around me encounter.  I try to hush the dysmorphia noise by exercising but no matter what I do I merely tire it temporarily, I never exhaust it into submission.  Oh, what I wouldn’t give to silence the beast that that has tormented a large portion of my existence.  

I now know that removing this flesh will not attenuate the problem.  What I’m looking forward to is waking up one morning, after 34 years and loving my tummy.  Not awaking to a fanny pack of lard that is a reminder of a misfortune of genetics.  I want to put on jeans without a floodgate of tears unleashing years of repressed angst. 

So this, my friends, is the initial reason for seeking cosmetic surgery.  I would like to silence this misguided orchestra that’s playing a disorganized symphony of dysmorphia.  I’m now recognizing that I need to find the space to allow peace and acceptance into the limited time I have left in this shape.  I want to approach this surgery with love for the alteration, with love for the years of health I have been afforded and will continue to have.  I do hope, in releasing these words into an environment of unpredictable eyes that this post... this vulnerability, will reach someone else with the same suffering and they too will try to find a moment to accept and love with or without surgical intervention.  

Underneath a facade of sarcasm lives something troubled.  I hope by releasing this blog (and potentially disappointing those looking for a laugh) a small portion of my ‘issue’ will break free, piercing a festering wound and initiating some healing.  Catharsis... Here I come!

I guess this is now bipolar Ashley.... who knows if you’ll be crying or laughing when you sign up for this blog!  Geez, I exhaust myself.  =D

A Little Nip and Tuck, Lift and Suck

Let’s talk about boobs... They come in all shapes and sizes.  But... after birthing a child and breast feeding, most come in one shape - 'tube socks with tennis balls.'  Some are not lucky enough to have the tennis ball addition and I simply call those 'fish tits.'  Bras have come a long way and manage to hide the rolled up titties and form them into two seemingly perky lumps.  But God forbid you unbuckle the beasts... next thing you know they are headed for the floor.  If you lay on your back... they are lost in your armpits.  This is unfortunate but natural.   I’m not sure which is spotted more frequently - Big Foot or perky after-baby boobies.  So that get’s me to my topic of the week and many weeks to come... plastic surgery!

I was going to share my deep thoughts, fears and inner turmoil about my body image... then I started to puke in my mouth.  Instead I’m going to stick with the raunchy, boundary-less Ashley you all know and try to love (or maybe just accept... or maybe just tolerate from time to time).  

I’m signed up!  July 26th.  Not just a little something-something, but the whole shebang of cosmetic redo.  The girlies are being lifted, one of them is a little overzealous and she needs to be reduced to match her sister.  I have to throw a ‘what the fuck’ on this one?  I considered having one augmented but that would look all fucked up to have one fake and the other natural.  They are considerably uneven.  I’ve thought of allowing the alpha booby to remain larger but she has a bad habit of yanking my V-neck shirts to one side and trying to travel out of her designated bra space.  

Next is the tummy tuck.  This one is the BITCH of the bunch.  Go ahead and YouTube “tummy tuck surgery” if you’d like to not eat for a week.  It’s horrific.  I’m sure you’re all asking, “Why do it?”  Well, I don’t know if it is genetics or one VERY large baby but I didn’t fare well with pregnancy and the endeavor tore my abs (legit fix-up needed).  Someday I’ll manage a honest T2B (reference Pathetic Little Piggies blog).  I also had a C-section.  I remember the nurse prepping me for surgery.  She said, “The scar will be so low that you’ll wear a bikini again.”  I’ll never forget that moment.  I thought, what a delusional bitch.  My stomach looks like it’s been clawed by a wild fucking animal.  This shit is nasty.  I never had a washboard stomach but the after baby image is one straight from Freddy Kruger, scars, scars and more scars.  Might I also throw in a three inch deep, horizontal, belly button.  

Giving birth, or maybe some random emotional trauma soon after, lead to my thyroid taking an extended vacation as well.   Actually, more like witness relocation.  Dunno what happened but he doesn’t seem to be coming back; I’ve exhausted most treatments and I’m unable to lose the extra inches.  Every time I get a lead as to what’s wrong with my thyroid I head into a serpentine labyrinth that begins with false hopes and ends with... well, no results.  

That segues me to liposuction.  This is one I wanted to avoid but the shit just ain’t coming off with exercise.. diet and/or starvation!  This procedure will be performed on my ‘flanks.’  (Great, now I’m a fucking piece of cheap steak.)  I do have a legitimate concern here... what happens if I gain a little weight after my midsection has been sculpted to perfection?  They say that once the fat is gone, it’s gone.  That means that the remaining fat will work overtime.  What if I gain it all in my upper back and I look like a fucking linebacker?  A linebacker with huge arms to boot!?!?!  Those of you who have ever seen me, my legs are... well great.  Not much fat there.  My one genetic blessing are these long, thin legs that lead to a “what the fuck happened?” midsection.  I will not sign up for a lifetime of tight leggings and oversized sweatshirts - my dependable fashion for the past three years.  

So, it’s time!  Time to say “fuck it!” and do something 100% for me.  Time to take a shower in natural lighting. Time to stop hating on those skinny bitches who have what I want... a fucking waistline!  I’m doing it... I heard someone say (post tummy tuck), “Who cares if it hurt?  I looked fucking awesome.”  So, I’m signing up for some serious pain... maybe even narcotics anonymous after many cocktails of painkillers but hell, I’m going to feel like a sexy bitch... something long overdue.

Pathetic Little Piggies

Games WOD #5

5 ‘cleans’ 100#

10 T2B (toes to bar) 

15 wall balls - 14#

*** Side note - T2B = hang from pull-up bar and pull feet above head to touch bar simultaneously.  Sounds easy?  You fucking try it.

As many rounds as possible in 20 minutes.

Yeah, no big deal.  Right?  This was my frame of mind prior to the 5:00 pm hour of humiliation tonight (WOD time).  I kept thinking... it’s no big deal that I’ve never managed a T2B.  Everybody makes them look easy.  Just swing and get your toes to the bar.  Piece of fucking cake.  

Well, it didn’t go down that easy.  Story of my fucking CrossFit career.  Somewhere in my (once again) delusional mind I figured T2B would miraculously come to me in my moment of elite athleticism tonight.  I watched everyone closely in the workout, as if to learn via osmosis.  I simply downloaded the material via visual aide and was set to complete at least 5 rounds in my 20 minute time allotment.

I complained myself through the warm up.  I felt like ass.  In the class of 30+ people I hear the trainer single me out - “Ashley, fucking c’mon” as I lay there lifeless on the floor.  God knows if it weren’t for my monthly membership fees that guy would be over my sorry ass.  Not a great start.

After warm up we were separated into two groups, “Games Athletes” and “pathetic, scaling, newbies.”  I WAS a Games Athlete!  I even got to stand next to the two girls who weren’t going to suck at this (Shout out to Leah and Sam).  For a moment I thought that someone might pass their eyes across me standing there and actually think I belonged.  I felt GOOD!  (Notice that there is a theme of delusions of grandeur prior to humbling... ass whooping...)

I was in the second heat.  Might I mention that the trainer started the clock when I was in the bathroom.  I’m just that fucking important that he didn’t even wait for me to take my position.  I scrambled to my bar, my scoring judge (Corin) was nowhere in sight either.  Two people obviously thought I was important enough to keep an eye on!  

The five cleans were a piece of cake because I am a burly beast in the weight lifting department (in case you were doubting).  The T2B were another story.  I hung from that fucking bar... attempting time after time... watching people in the “pathetic, scaling, new-bee” class lap me, again, and again, and again.... and again.  I tried every grip, every bend.  No matter what I did my little piggies were just too pathetic to make it over head.  Corin was kind enough to view the process from a distorted angle and counted 10 reps.  But, let’s be fucking honest... If that man doesn’t make me feel good about myself, he has a sex life to lose.  Cheating seemed inconsequential.  

I Got My Ass Kicked by AARP

Made it through games WOD #3 without severe injury.  I put that ass heavy bar overhead 11 times, to my surprise.   This takes me back to last Saturday’s WOD where I was judging the participants.  The high point for me was working with a wonderful woman named Diane.  Diane was one of the oldest contestants at 63 years.  As she lay on the ground painfully trying to manage her 80th+ plank push up I was screaming in her ear.. “BALLS out Diane!  BALLS OUT!”  Another thing I love about CrossFit - you’re never too old to have profanities yelled at you as you think you’re dying on the floor.  I might mention... Diane kicked my ass with 7+ rounds.   

This is my response to last Friday’s workout.  Since I’m a slacker... I never posted it.

Walk one mile with a minimum of 25 pounds.

Okay... have you looked at my ass lately!?!  I’m guessing that between the spare tire on my midsection, my upper arm fat and my saddle bags... I’m carrying at least an extra 40 pounds EVERYWHERE.... and there is no putting this shit down.  I’m not going to carry an additional 25 pound sandbag for another mile of my life!  I figure I should get a fucking medal for working out with the weight I already got.   I’m still trying to get rid of baby weight... my baby is soon turn seven (years).  

I did WOD #4 yesterday.  Here comes the cussing!

60 burpees

30 OHS 

10 muscles ups

Get as many ‘rounds’ as possible in ten minutes.  WTF??  Rounds... I was hoping for reps in the double digits you bastards.  How can they talk about ‘rounds’ plural?  Assholes.  That WOD was a fucking joke.  I looked at it on the website and thought.. what ass lickers, they added muscle ups.  I can’t do a muscle up!  Okay... fuck the muscle up... I never got anywhere near the muscle up portion of the WOD.   (I do need to mention that some delusional part of me foresaw a stellar performance that included my first ever muscle ups (consecutive of course).  This fantasy also involved the entire gym cheering me on and hoisting me onto their shoulders because I was the MOST talented crossfitter EVER. Like I said.. delusional).  Back to reality... my 60 burpees looked something like a failed bellyflop followed by an intoxicated moron trying to regain balance.  There were two permanent sweat outlines of my body on either side on the bar, like a bad episode of CSI (burpees had to be completed on either side of the barbell after jumping over it).  Listening to my partner, Bill, apologetically count my every rep all I could think about was giving up.  I heard Bill... “20...................... 21.”  Meantime, I perk up to hear the team next to me counting.... “45... 46....”  Hot damn... I’m really fucking slow!  By the time I jumped over that stupid, ass licking barbell 60 times I had two minutes to spare.  Now... that’s pretty pathetic.  I pulled the 90# barbell into a clean and jerked the damn thing over my head then I tried to widen my grip (clever - eh?).  I nearly dropped the damn thing on my head as I heard my partner scream “AAAhhhhhhhh!”  in response to my sloppy, near-decapitation, maneuver.

Oops!

This was my moment to shine... the moment where I would overhead squat more than ever.  I looked around the room and all the girls were managing it.. going way beyond their 60 reps.  My confidence was building!  

I’m guessing I looked something like an uncoordinated sumo wrestler; all pale, sweaty and shit-ass-beat going down for the ‘squat’ portion - I was barely holding that bar over my head.  In the end.... I went down...... and never came back up again.  I’m not sure which hit the floor first, my ass or the barbell.  The humiliation ended there.  Ended at 60 reps.  The lowest score for the day.  Fuck!

Might I mention... my partner Bill is 68.   Bill kicked my ass just like Diane... I think there’s a theme here.

Vicodin with a Vodka chaser?

Less than an hour away from my third attempt at the games WOD.  Shit balls.  I’ve decided another one of my many objectives at this CrossFit sport... aim low and you’ll likely not disappoint yourself too much.  I’m shooting for one rep in today’s challenge.  It’s a clean, squat and overhead press motion with a stupid (meaning heavy) amount of weight.  I have shit bad form which leads to lumbar crunching of my spinal column.  I’m guessing I’ll walk in about 5’10” and leave somewhere around 4’2’’.  Due to last weeks pathetic performance of 5 rounds and some change I’m sitting somewhere near DFL (dead fucking last) in the competition.  Like I said.... aim low and you’ll likely NOT disappoint yourself.  

I’ll be submitting my next post from the orthopedic ward... later tonight.  

On my knees... please?

The games #2 WOD posted.  Ug.  

9- 100# deadlifts

12 - ‘proper’ push ups

15 - box jumps

What a fucking joke.  I have a 300# deadlift but I can’t muster three ‘proper’ push ups.  I’m going to claim it’s because I have a torn rotator cuff.  But... let’s be honest.  I’m a fucking slacker and I’ve managed to pussy myself through them for the past year on my knees.  Now that I’m being forced to be a big girl I may have some problems.  So... count me in for 11 total reps!!  I’m guessing I can manage about two full plank push ups.  That gives me about 14 minutes of ‘what the fuck’ time before the clock runs out.  I’ll be sure to let you know how it goes.

Ironically... I got sick today.  I think it’s the psychosomatic response to “Oh, shit... I can’t do push ups.”  I spent my day in bed - doing what I do best, a lot of nothing with a smattering of whining.  That leads me into another bad habit I have when I’m sick.... eating.  Not just snacking but full fledged... strap on the feed bag... no calorie left behind eating.  I’ve convinced myself that a high carb, high sugar intake is like a good dose of vitamin C - really good for you.  I’ve also come to realize that somewhere in my mind calories don’t count when no one witnesses you consuming them.  Anyone else experience this phenomenon?   In some of my worst psycho bingeing phases I have been known to put candy wrappers in the shredder so no one would find out, therefore calorie-less!  In attempts to control my bingeing I have thrown away perfectly good food..... only to dig through the trash to get it back out.  In response to this psycho (and mildly disgusting) behavior I now have to sabotage the food with a cleaning product, preferably Windex (the pump spray feature is necessary for a streak free coating).  Another method I have is the “Hey Honey... can you please take this from me and HIDE IT!”  Corin (a little intimidated) removes the bag of shit food (tonight was chocolate covered acai berries) and hides it.  Within an hour I’m searching the house and subsequently yelling at him because I can’t find it.  (If I do find it and eat it... I’m upset with him for not hiding it well enough).  What that poor man goes through!  I know that many of you just nodded your head in agreement.  Watch yourselves...

Words can’t relay the severity of this ‘syndrome’ when it coincides with PMS!  Shit.. that’s a whole other blog.  ;0)  I’m off to bed... after a quick snack.

Botox and Botched Boobies

There hasn’t been a lot to blog about lately.  Other than taking a 14# medicine ball to the boob today from a 12 foot target...  not much of interest has happened.   Tomorrow the games WOD #2 will post.  I’ll be sure to update you on the next vomit inducing endeavor.  My score last week landed me in a spot far, far,  from first place.  :0)

I went in for a face peel today.  The PA facilitating my “rejuvenation” had the skin of a toddler.  I mean perfect.  I was immediately sold on whatever she suggested and willing to mortgage the house to do so.  It took all of 30 seconds for me to sign a waiver and hand my credit card over for a little Botox intervention.  So, in about ten days I will lack the muscular ability to furrow my brow, thus looking (at least) 15 years younger.  My plan was to not say anything to anyone. To my credit, I waited about five minutes before I called my first friend to relay the news.  For those of you who know me - that’s a big deal that I waited that long.  

This takes me to the topic of plastic surgery.  I’ve heard many women talk about it.  Many of them shy or embarrassed at the thought much less the execution.  Because I lack a ‘shy’ gene I’m happy to relay my feelings, opinions and lists of potential fix-ups from the rooftop.  Due to CrossFit I’m proud to announce that I have an AMAZING set of six pack abs.  I’m not so proud to announce that they are buried underneath an unsightly muffin top or “fanny pack” as I sometimes call it.  So, there’s your first visual.  Onto the boobies....  Let’s just say that without a good push up bra I look like I should have a disk in my lip and be on the front of  National Geographic.  (Side note- I had to give up yoga because my boobs nearly suffocated me once in the ‘plow’ position.  It wasn’t pretty.)   I’ve already been evaluated for a little nip, tuck and suck to the tune of... well, a lot of money.  My biggest concern is not the money or pain but my lack of frontal lobe (the area of YOUR brain the controls impulse and social filtration).  I lack this device in sober situations.  If you toss in a few martinis God only knows what I’m capable of.  I’ll be ‘that girl’ showing everyone my new rack.  

Someone asked me, “What happens if you don’t like the result.”  I don’t know how that’s fucking possible.  I’ve seen the random botched set of boobies.  Ya know, the ones where one nipple is aiming toward the ceiling and the other is heading toward the floor?  Even that would be a big step up from tube socks with tennis balls.  I guess.. if I’m really unhappy with the result I can find another doctor who offers the ‘quintuplets package.’  I can get everything re-stretched out and sagged below the waistline.  :0)  

My First Slacker Post

Oh...where to start.  I’ve never been a “blogger” nor do I follow anyone else’s.  I just see this as a good place to vent all of the comical, and never-ending, humiliating experiences I encounter on a daily basis - especially in the gym.  

About CrossFit... I approach CrossFit in a different manner than most.  Here are my main goals:  1) Maintain enough injuries so no one expects me to ever complete an “Rx” (prescribed) WOD.  2) Avoid days that involve way too much exertion, they lead to exhaustion and worse... a shower.  I, unlike my fellow CrossFitting junkies, do not wish to push myself to near death on a daily basis.  I do appreciate the occasional ‘PR’ but I’m not willing to rhabdo myself in order to have a good score placed near my name on the infamous white board of elite fitness.   

I was talked into competing for the games on Wednesday.  I can’t think of a scenario that would actually involve me making it to the games so don’t be fooled - there is NO chance.  The WOD was AMRAP (as many reps as possible) 10 minutes - 30 double-unders and 15 snatches.  If you don’t know what this means... just understand it fucking sucks.  Now.. snatches - not a big deal.  Double unders = problem.  I can manage the little buggers but it’s not pretty.  First, there is no bra strong enough to contain my breasts without impeding my breathing.  Second, I have killer shin splints with a little compartment syndrome thrown in - shit awful painful.  Third, child birth.  Need I say more?  Of course not, but I will.  I almost forgot the fourth.... flogging.  I equate the unfortunate event of a missed double under with a speed rope to being flogged.  Maybe worse.  These self inflicted injuries leave you covered in welts that look something like an S&M bondage moment gone bad.  Unfortunately when you’re AMRAPing for time there is no ‘safe’ word, just reps for time.

I encouraged my judge to bust my ass.  If I’m not repeatedly screamed at during a workout and forced to push myself I will likely take a potty break and practice some karaoke mid WOD.  Patrick (my judge) was wonderfully supportive and repeatedly reassured me that only HE could tell I was peeing my pants during the double unders.  Not sure if this was helpful but it was really fucking hilarious at the time.  At the end of my workout I was able to remain vertical and the details of my breakfast were still contained.  Getting ready to ‘in-your-face’ my amazing AMRAP score of seven rounds and some change my judge delivered the devastating news.  “Great job Ashley!  You killed three rounds and 33 reps!”  What the fuck!?!  Seriously?  I’m near death, covered in welts and completely humiliated for three rounds?  I pissed myself for THREE rounds!?!   So, I gathered my speed rope, ice bags and Ibuprofen and headed home for... a shower.

Currently ranked in a solid 776th place.  I’m representin’ for team MBS!!

Coming soon.... Pole dancing and strip club adventures!