Tuesday, September 4, 2007
Too Pumped Up
I'm sure none of you are as foolish as I am, and push yourself too hard at the gym. No, you're much smarter than I am. You wouldn't take a strength training class conducted by a sadist. A Prince of Darkness. A bringer of all that is painful. I'm sure you wouldn't be that foolish.
I, however, am that foolish and did take that class.
I very nearly committed first-degree murder when the Instructor straight from the 7th Ring of Hell said, "Ok, just 4 more! 4, 3-and-a-half, 3, 2, Ok 8 more! You didn't think you were getting off that easy, did you?" This was right around squat rep # 350 (with weights, some balancing on one leg). At this point my quads lost all of their elasticity, and would neither expand nor contract. When your muscles give out on you like that you really start to appreciate your skeleton in a whole new way. Before it was just there to give my fat something to hang onto. Now, my skeleton was the only thing between me and a pile of oooze.
But did I stop? I mean, my legs were gone, but I still had arms and abs, right? I should stick around and torture them too. Right?! I told you, I'm a fool. By the end of that hour, the only muscles not completely blasted were those that controlled my tear ducts. (Although those were on the verge of getting a work out too.) I crawled out of the gym and down the street, looking like I'd been hobbled. It was hard, I tell you. I was just shy of pushing a baby out of its stroller and demanding that the mother wheel me to the bus stop.
Nevertheless, I made it home. I'll always consider that voyage home akin to Shackleton's expedition to the South Pole, since both journeys were considered to be a death sentence. I'm laying on my couch now. It's the same location I've been in since I collapsed here four hours ago. My fingers just barely started working, so I thought I'd send out a distress call. If I'm not back tomorrow, please send someone to make sure the lactic acids haven't petrified me in the night.
It seems that my girly muscles couldn't take the heavy-duty hardcoreness after a measly couple of weeks worth of atrophy. Stupid girly muscles.
By the way, I'm really dreading the thought of having to go through the contortions involved in taking off a sports bra. I'll probably end up with my elbows pinned to my ears for the larger part of an hour. Couldn't they make those things a little less, um, binding?