Fuck Yeah Crossfit

Yes, I'm guilty. I just killed my workout.

47 notes



Somewhere in the midst of one of the most hellish workouts I’ve ever done, one where every nociceptor in my body was firing in synaptic terror and tears streamed down my face mercifully lost in sheets of choking sweat, it occurred to me that for some time in my life I’ve been confusing pain for longing and love. That’s what I realized, right there in the box surrounded by people pushing themselves to their limits, all underscored by Rick Ross and curious onlookers with faces pressed to the glass eating from tubs of Yogurtland. Ain’t that a bitch? Epiphanies don’t exactly make appointments I guess. Standing there, a mass of exhaustion set ablaze, I wanted to quit. I wanted to drop my barbell and walk the fuck out. I wanted to run from me and never return. Then there was the moment of clarity, like a hand reaching into lead, grabbing me by the flesh of my neck and yanking me from the kind of depths from which you realize, you might never otherwise return. And I got pissed for life. I’d run enough; I’d run from health, I’d run from happiness, I’d run from sanity and I was goddamned fucked if I was going to run from one more thing. So one rep at a time I finished and as I was laying there on the ground wondering what THE FUCK just happened to me, like that, I felt better. There’s shit to work through and process, but I felt better. At peace. Thanks Elizabeth - I’ll always love and hate you, at once.