There was a time a couple friends of mine convinced me to join them for a crossfit workout … it didn’t go well …
I was making great progress through a gauntlet of man makers, dead lifts and all sorts of unreasonable punishment … and by great progress I mean barely completely them with terrible form.
One of the last work outs was jumping onto a chair. Now for the little girls who can’t make it all the way up to the top of the chair, this gym had a step you can use instead. This step is only a couple inches off the ground and gives you the sense of accomplishment on par with opening a can of soda or peeling an orange … actually an orange represents a far steeper challenge.
During my previous workouts, I did bunny hops off to the side while real men (and women) would do impressive things near me. However, today I said NO MORE and I went up and stood in front of this black metal chair with a blue cushion that I somehow needed to reach. I had already done a lot of leg work outs so I knew I had to dig deep and get those rubbery things under control. I jumped and landed on top of the chair. Clearly, I was on my way to real manhood! bunny hops were now a distant memory of my past!
I needed to jump five times and on the third time I landed on the chair I was so pumped I was ready to fight a lion … and then it happened. I had only landed on the edge of the chair which led to my weight pulling the chair towards me and conversely flipped me forward to have a meeting with the chair. Specifically the black metal rail forming the back of the chair. As I met the chair, physics folded my girth over the back turning me ironically into a taco … which (along with the tacos bigger cousin, Senor Burrito) was primarily the cause of the extreme impact which drove me into the chair. Now, I have been kicked multiple times by steers and those kicks felt more akin to being tickled when compared to this sensation.
I fell onto the ground and my blubbery carcass began flopping around and I realized that being covered in sweat only adds to the look of being a fish out of water. As I struggle to find my breath, I hear one of my work out buddies, Cortney, ask, “You ok, Jimbo?” without breaking stride in her routine. I want to say, “Tell my wife, I love her” and what flowers I want at my funeral. The story of Harry Houdini dying from being punched by a boxer runs through my mind and I am sure my end is near. Cort finishes her work out and waits patiently for me to end my feminine and shameful behavior.
I eventually gain the ability to breathe again and explain how the mean chair assaulted me and turned me into my favorite food. Cort was gracious though and didn’t laugh … much.