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.