Dr. Superpez: or How I stopped worrying and learned to love the press

“Love” is probably an overstatement, but how else would I match the movie title?

The overhead press, even the weenie version I do, is a pain in the neck. Literally. Your neck will get friggin’ sore with it. For other newbies like me, an overhead press looks, at first, pretty simple. You’re just going to lift a bar over your head, and I started with a PVC pipe. Not so simple. Not in the least.

My husband had been walking me through it before he left town, and now that he’s back, he’s gotten to review my form. I was all kinds of pleased with myself just for doing it while he was gone. Turns out I only remembered three of the multitudinous things one must do all at once during the press. I used to think I could multitask. Not so much with the press, because I have a hard time even remembering what count I’m on.

The three things I remembered: Superman, Pez, and “elbows out.” When doing the press, you stand like Superman, chest out and shoulders back with your feet about shoulder-width apart.  You then “rack” the bar, grasping it overhand and then holding it up to your neck. Yeah, all the way. Supposedly pretty much over the notch in the collarbones. Not me. I have too much adipose tissue (take that, fat, I’m making you sound all clinical) in my wobbly upper arms. After a while, Gary gave up and said, “Just worry about keeping your elbows out; when we add weight, it’ll take care of the problem.” He also assured me that everyone says that at first. Even skinny people. I’m having a hard time buying it, but, okay, let’s go from there.

You then have to get your face out of the way, because you will otherwise smack yourself in the chin or move the bar out in front of you, which will be a bad idea someday when there are weights on it. The bar needs to go in a straight line up over your head. So you act like a Pez and suck your head back. After the bar has passed the top of your head, you should put it back where it belongs while you hold the bar over your head. I keep forgetting and try to stay permanently pezzed out.

Turns out Gary got the Superman/Pez instructions from Heather Bergeron, who, among many other achievements, coaches a lot of kids. So, yes, simple instructions are good, even for adults, particularly for those of us whose exercise intelligence is on the elementary school level. Here’s the video, some of which I may be reiterating:

http://vimeo.com/18297278

[Haven’t gotten to the Oompa-loompas yet; I think she’s talking about the Gene Wilder version of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, which I never cared for. Give me Johnny Depp any day. And the stick trick? Yeah, you put a stick against my butt and shoulders and it will never, ever, go straight up.]

Now that the sucker is over your head (and this is the part I completely forgot), you have to straighten your arms all the way out and then shrug your shoulders upside your ears. This is the part that will make your neck hurt. Or at least that’s what I think; I haven’t asked and could very well be completely wrong. (I got through seven years of higher level education without ever taking an anatomy class, so I make no promises. I’ve learned what I know through work, reading, and my own dadgum illnesses.)

Gravity will be your friend, next, surely. No such luck. After you’ve pezzed your head back out of the way, you are supposed to slowly bring it back down to your neck — and keep those elbows out.

By this time, I have no idea how many I’ve done. Six, maybe? Oh, no, it was just all those blinking steps that made me think I’d been through more than one exercise by now.

But, I have to admit, I’m getting so I don’t forget all the steps; just a few every time. Occasionally only one. And once in a while, I get all of it right.

That’s actually a pretty good feeling.

Side effects of CrossFit usage

The first indicator I had that my workouts were going to last longer than just the time I was actively participating in them was when the hubbie and I sat outside to have some watermelon (a really tasty one, as it happens).  Before I finished my wedge, I had to put it down because I couldn’t hold it any longer; my arms were shaking too badly. This was several hours after the workout was over.

And then there’s the soreness. Since I have fibromyalgia in my big list o’ diseases, I’m pretty used to aching all over. This soreness at least means I’m getting somewhere, although it has occasionally been bad enough to give me trouble sleeping. My not-a-bit overweight-or-out-of-shape daughter-in-law swears it’s not just me.

Worst of all, I finally have to admit it: the hubby was right (along with every fitness specialist in the world, I suppose) that exercising actually can, in the long run, make you feel better and more energized. On a different day than the watermelon incident, it had been an uphill slog all day, and I didn’t want to exercise. But I did it, and, frighteningly, I felt better the rest of the day. Why scary? Because it means I really can’t quit if I want to be healthy.

Hmmm, how can I rationalize this away? Maybe  it’s an instance of you feel better after compared to when you’re exercising. Y’know, like in the ancient joke “Doctor, it hurts when I do this.”  Doctor: “Well, stop doing it.” Or maybe it’s the really nice shower after you’re all sweaty and salty. Maybe I would have felt better later in the day anyway.

Nope. None of them seem to cover it.

Damn. I hate being wrong.

The power of music

I never imagined making exercise mixes would be so time-consuming; I haven’t kept close track, but I looked up during one session of going through my music and adding them to the mix and three hours had gone by. I’ve now burned three CDs, and every one of them has more than one track that really doesn’t  have enough oomph.

But I never realized just how useful they could be for keeping up your pace while exercising.

A couple of years ago, I was, for a few months, very consistent about walking on the treadmill in the evenings and would watch television while walking. I thought that was the way to go, as it kept my mind off the fact I was, in fact, exercising, even if at a very slow speed. But using music actually has been better; the right music gets you hyped up.

My 26-year-old son, who is a music snob in general, was completely unimpressed with what I’d come up with; the Moulin Rouge version of Lady Marmalade  made him feel like he was “getting an estrogen flash.” (Yes, I raised a smart ass.) But for an out-of-shape 50-year-old woman, I think the following songs work quite well:

• The aformentioned Moulin Rouge version of Lady Marmalade as well as its version of  Rhythm of the Night
• Queen: Another One Bites the Dust, Don’t Stop Me Now (which now always makes me think of Shaun of the Dead), Crazy Little Thing Called Love, and Killer Queen. Surprisingly, there were fewer Queen songs than I thought would work. Sometimes the problem is that they’re slower than you realize because they get you hyped up anyway (e.g., We Will Rock You) or that you remember the fast bits, but the song changes beat at some point (e.g., Bohemian Rhapsody or The Prophet’s Song).
• Billy Joel: We Didn’t Start the Fire, Only the Good Die Young (even though I keep wondering how I can like a song that basically says “You’re going to lose your virginity at some point, might as well do it with me”), Movin’ Out (Anthony’s Song), You May Be Right, It’s Still Rock and Roll to Me, Pressure and You’re Only Human (Second Wind)
• Elton John (Yeah, I couldn’t do one Piano Man without the other):  I’m Still Standing, Crocodile Rock (although I can only listen to it once in a while — not a personal fave), Saturday Night’s Alright for Fighting, The Bitch is Back and Philadelphia Freedom.  I was surprised how slow Bennie and the Jets is.
• Fleetwood Mac: Second Hand News and Go Your Own Way.
• Huey Lewis and the News: The Heart of Rock & Roll, I Want a New Drug (can’t listen to it without thinking about the lawsuit Lewis brought against Ray Parker Jr. over the Ghostbuster’s theme; saw something about it on tv at some point and thought, geez, why didn’t I pick up on the fact that they are almost exactly the same song, different tempo), Walking on a Thin Line and You Crack Me Up.
• Kenny Loggins:  Danger Zone and I’m Alright. Footloose is iffy for me, but it may be that my ancient boombox won’t play it quite right.
• Men at Work: Down Under
• Bob Seger: Old Time Rock and Roll
• Simon & Garfunkel: My first thought was no way they’d have something fast enough. Shocked me to find Cecilia works.
• Styx: Rockin’ the Paradise, Nothing Ever Goes as Planned and Too Much Time on my Hands
• The Eagles: Life in the Fast Lane

Some of these may get cut as I get faster, but right now, they work fine. According to Windows Media Player, the above list is two hours, 13 minutes, and 36 seconds, so I’m pretty good for the moment. Most workouts have come in at under 30 minutes, so that’s four workouts before I would have to repeat.

Hints for finding music for your exercise mix:  A song  may be a good candidate if : 1) It’s an angry, screw-you break-up song, or, 2) It’s got “Rock and Roll” in the title. No guarantee, of course. I’m sure there are some Michael Jackson songs that would work, but I’m still creeped out when I hear him.

YMMV, but I didn’t find anything in any of my tracks from Seals & Crofts, Sarah McLachlan, or Christopher Cross. If you have any nominees, I’m listening. That list and the one above is enough to give anyone an idea of my era and taste.

I’ve also realized I know fewer of the lyrics of most of these songs than I thought I did. Elton John, well, that’s no surprise: I’m generally surprised if I understand anything but the title, which he always managed to articulate quite clearly. But some of the others I thought I knew well, and most have at least line that I’ve no idea what the lyrics are.  Thank God for the internet, where multiples sites offer you the lyrics. I guess that’s why they stopped putting them in the CDs.

Con woman

As a sweat-resistant person, my “pros” list for CrossFit was  pretty short: add muscle, get fit, burn calories.

But my “con list,” well, that was a whole different matter:

• It will hurt
• I’ll look stupid
• I won’t be able to do it
• I never have been coordinated; why should this be any different?
• I’m too fat to do it
• I’ll hurt myself

Summary: Fear of failure.

I didn’t want to commit. I wanted to get a trial version and then decide whether I liked it before committing to it. Problem: Commitment is a prerequisite. With the exception of my marriage and my kids, commitment is an issue for me. I like change. Or at least that’s what I tell myself. A friend once told me I was a magpie; I couldn’t focus on anything because if I saw something new and shiny, I was immediately distracted. Short-term megaprojects I can do, probably because they require intense focus for a short time. It’s the ordinary, repetitive, boring, and/or longterm tasks that give me trouble.

So I didn’t want to make a commitment to CrossFit because I was afraid I’d fail either by my natural deficiencies as an athletic-sort or, more likely, because I’d bail. I didn’t want to do the latter again; I’ve done it too many times in my life.  So agreeing to start, and then, masochist that I am, deciding to blog about it, is either incredibly stupid or pretty damn courageous on my part.

So I won’t find out if I’ve been conning myself out of something great for all this time or if my negative assessment is right until quite a bit of time has passed. But I’ve tied my own hands a lot lately for fear of failure.

Time to jump out the door and hope the chute opens.

Sheer, unadulterated terror

It’s like this. My husband, Gary, has been doing CrossFit for…oh…a few years now. He’s got a group at work that use CrossFit to stay in shape, and he and his good buddy, Kenny, have gotten so into it that Gary got certified as an instructor and Kenny opened a box. My husband is 55 and a hoss. Why the high school jock married a sedentary, klutzy nerd is anyone’s guess, but he still seems to like me anyway.

I, on the other hand, just turned 50 and have had chronic health issues and am seriously overweight. Okay, I’ll just say it: I’m an obese 5’5″ fattie weighing in at 242 lbs. Some of it has accumulated from binge eating when I’m stressed; some of it came from a medication which made me balloon 70 lbs in about 6 months. But that was over a decade ago, and I’m still looking down at the basketball that lives over my abdomen.

Gary’s been trying to tell me for…oh…probably friggin’ years that I needed to exercise (and drink more water and eat better and take Megamucil — these I’ve finally given in on) for health and weight loss. I generally stuck my fingers in my ears and said “Lalalalala — I can’t hear you.” I grew up believing in the magic pill. When I was 16 and 120 lbs, my mother took me to a fat doctor for the first time (no, not an doctor who is overweight; I believe the technical term is now “a bariatric specialist”). The guy’s office was in a shady part of town, which should have given me a clue that perhaps Mom wasn’t really on the right track about this, but, no, I bought into it. And continued to. For years. For decades.

So once Gary got into CrossFit, he kept harping on about how great it was and anyone could do it. I thought back over my multiple times to physical therapists (at least 11 times I can count offhand) and the countless minor injuries that I’d had at lower body weight (which lead to my 3-week rule: three weeks of any exercise, no matter how benign, and I’m down for 6), and rejected the idea out of hand.

Then Gary got certified, and has been using family members as guinea pigs to hone his coaching abilities. I had started having chronic migraines (5-7 per week) some months before, and after one feeble attempt, gave it up as a lost cause. Of course, at that point I’d given up driving, socializing, and pretty much anything other than huddling in a dark and quiet room as a lost cause.

Then, right after my 50th birthday, I finally caught a break. I was accepted by a headache specialist who is so well-respected and in demand that you pretty much have to audition to get to be a patient. He identified the weirdnesses associated with my migraines, and the solution also applied to almost every other disease or syndrome I have. (Basically, if it will make you miserable but probably won’t kill you, there’s a high likelihood I’ve got it.) So the drug he put me on began decreasing intensity and frequency of the migraines, but slowly. The side effects, mostly being what my daughter tells me is definitely the equivalent of being stoned, wouldn’t go ahead and go away, though, because the dose was never quite enough, and kept going up, and every time the dosage went up, any side effect improvement went away.

But a little over a week ago, a window of coherence appeared. And the man I live with said, “Lo, a time to try CrossFit, as it has been prophesied.” (Okay, what he really said was something more like “CrossFit?” He’s extremely economical with words, a failing I obviously do not share.)

So he made me a babystep CrossFit plan. A sorta-squat using a plyo box, a press using PVC pipe, a shrug using a 10 lb medicine ball (who knew those things still existed…don’t they predate Jack LaLanne?), all preceded by a 10 minute walk on the treadmill. I started at 2.5mph on the treadmill and kept trying to cry when he was instructing me on the techniques I needed to do.

“It’s too much.”

“I’m overwhelmed.”

Yeah, basic whining and complaining. The only thing I was ever good at athletically was doing the splits and now out-of-date dancing; other than that, I was slower and clumsier than anyone else. I missed being high school valedictorian because I got a D one semester in PE. So I pretty much count on being a failure at anything athletic.

And then my wonderful husband said something amazing as I sat on the plyo box with tears welling up in my eyes: “You can’t fail at CrossFit. When I say ‘working until you fail,’ I only mean that you do something until you can’t do it any more. That’s not a failure; that’s a success. It means you are challenging yourself and getting better. You are the only measure of success; improvement is success.” And, for once, I actually heard, all the way down in my heart, what the man was saying.

So, although I’m still terrified I’m going to screw up or hurt myself, I’m committed to trying. That’s my first goal: consistency. And I managed to weasel a deal out of my husband: After I’ve done 2 sets of 5-day workouts, I get a foot rub. Now that’s what I call motivation.