One of my mantras is, “My body doesn’t get to tell me what I can do. I tell my body what it can do.” That has gotten me through a lot of challenges, including a 5k, half marathon, full marathon, and learning to walk again. I love being the boss of my body. And I love my body and what it has allowed me to do and still allows me to do.
I can appreciate the small things, like being able to walk up and down a flight of stairs, or carry a drink in one hand and bags of groceries in another, or dance with my husband at a wedding. I can also appreciate the big things, like being able to throw a strong punch at a heavy bag and not fall over, or do box steps ups at the gym, or deadlift more than 100 pounds. My body is strong, and it is because of my hard work and resilience and dedication and fortitude that it’s strong.
But sometimes my body likes to give me a dose of reality. Today was one of those days.
Today’s workout was simple enough in technique, just not task: row 10k meters in teams of 3 — the goal was to complete it in 40 minutes or less. I knew I was going to be a bit of a weak link — I was definitely the oldest person at the gym today by probably a good 20 years or more over everyone else there, and I’m just not as good an athlete as everyone who was there today. Simple fact. It doesn’t bother me. I know I can’t do the things so many others can do — partially because of age, partially because of skill, partially because of condition. I’m no longer self-conscious about it. I also don’t think anyone pays one bit of attention to my “limitations”. We all are just the athletes we are. (Side note: the culture at my gym is just so damn fantastic. CrossFit Washington is exactly what I needed after moving away from K-Fit Minooka.)
I partnered up with Brady, our coach, and Crystal, a killer athlete. We were rowing about 300m-500m each and then switching off. I wasn’t rowing as many strokes per minute as they were, but I was okay — I was holding my own. Where things started to go off the rails in my head was the last 3 times I was on the rower. I started to feel my lower legs and feet go more numb than normal. I knew what it was: fatigue. The truth is neuropathy impacts muscles — muscles don’t get the signals they need from the nerves, so muscles aren’t as strong as they should be, and muscles tire more easily. I’ve had this happen when I’ve tried to run longer distances (or even walk) since my back surgery: my legs just get so tired, they feel so weak and heavy. That’s what happened today. Even though there isn’t a lot of movement of the lower legs on a rower, there is still plenty of pushing and movement of the ankles. It’s like my body picks the worst times to remind me that I ain’t all that — like when I’m working against the clock on a strenuous workout as part of a team! Thank God I finished when I did because I’m not sure I had another 500m in my legs by the time we got to the end. Crystal got on the rower at 9500m and I told her to let me know if she wanted to halve it with me instead of her finishing off the last 500m; I figured I could handle about 250m. But I didn’t need to because Crystal, like the beast she is, finished off that last 500m like it was the first 500m.
I waited until I got into my car to fall apart. I was pissed off the whole way home, hating this body of mine, hating what happened to me when I didn’t ask for it or deserve it. By the time I got home, I wasn’t pissed anymore, just sad. And when Jim asked how the workout went, the waterworks started. So I’m having a bit of a pity party for myself, and for the record:
I. DON’T. CARE.
Guess how often I feel sorry for myself? Almost never. In fact, I literally can’t remember the last time I felt that way. I’m not going to sit here and fill myself with toxic positivity — oh, look at what you CAN do, Renee. Remember where you used to be. Look at how far you’ve come. Everyone has off days. You’re so strong. You’ve inspired people. It’s just one workout. Other people have it way worse than you do. All those things are true, but for the moment, I ain’t feeling them and they’re not comforting me.
So for now, for a bit, not forever, not even for days, I’m gonna be sad for what I wasn’t able to do, sad for feeling my limitations, sad for having to live with a condition I don’t want. In a little while, I’ll be over it. Parties never last forever. Neither will this pity party.
The View from the Cheap Seats 