Its just a box.
Really I mean it is just a box.
So how hard could jumping on it be?
I think you may all be bored to tears with my last few posts about how changing my food intake has been life altering. And trust me, I find it much harder to write funny posts about how life is being disastrous when it is all going swimmingly.
But I need to work with what I have got.
Today I have a box, and a rope, and a poorly controlled pelvic floor.
I have tried a crossfit session.
For those of you who don’t know what I mean, let me explain by quoting from The Guardian
The training technique could be described as ‘gymnastics meets Olympic lifting’ and has been known to leave people incontinent with exhaustion.
It is a little hardcore, but incredibly addictive.
Workouts include kettlebells, skipping ropes, heavy weights, pulls ups, handstand press ups, and lots of burpees.
It is a workout that challenges your body, mind and pelvic floor.
As part of one workout I had to do 100 skips – three times over. I swear my bladder was empty, my core tight and still I felt my body bleed with the pressure of not losing all self control and widdling on the gym floor.
Can you imagine widdling on the floor in front of a bunch of beautifully toned, weight welding people.
I imagined it for 300 skips – it wasn’t pretty.
Today I tried a new session, I went walking in, eyeing up the skipping ropes warily hoping that jumping excessively wouldn’t form part of today’s workout. I had had three cups of tea and a litre of water already. Gushing was the word that came to mind.
Luckily ropes were off the menu, instead a series of lifting 30kg above my head in a variety of ways was the meal of the day. Followed by hanging from a bar hauling my knees to my chest, then jumping on a box.
Which brings up back to where we started.
It was only a box.
A bloody big box, but still a box.
Today, that box was my nemesis.
“It may take some time to do this.” Said my instructor.
Personally I thought it may be something that may never happen this decade, but I was happy to humour her.
I stepped on the box, felt myself stand about a million miles high in the sky (or a least a foot off the floor). Then I climbed down.
In my head I jumped, however my body went rogue and sent one leg onto the box and the other started randomly hopping on the floor.
I tried again.
This time my pelvic floor protested with the leap, one leg scraped the box and the other stayed obstinately on the floor.
I was starting to get frustrated!
My head was in one place and my body was resisting all my mental messages.
It was a box for fecks sake!
Yanking in my core and summoning my inner superwoman I tried again.
This time my feet barely lifted from the ground. My superhero cape was clearly malfunctioning.
“Let’s leave it for a bit,” said my instructor, “as I said it can take a while.”
Frowning, I started at the evil cube of wood, and closed my eyes in defeat. Then I heard my inner voice whisper – ‘you couldn’t have done it this three months ago, but you sure as hell can do it now.’
Eyes open, belly tight, legs poised, I crouched, lengthened, and leapt into the air, tucking my knees and then whacking them down with a tremendous thump.
I was on the box.
It was only a box, but today it was my box, my glory, my achievement.
I beat the box, and I didn’t widdle on the floor.
I’d call that a win!