3 Surprising Life Lessons CrossFit taught me - and why YOU should give it a try!

I have been CrossFitting for over a year now. Life in the ‘box’ has been wonderful to say the least, but the benefits that have surprised me the most have not necessarily been strength, fitness or even endorphin-rush related. Even though all those things have been a huge hunk of the awesomeness, (including making some great friends along the way, feeling a part of a group of people who are all about support, positivity and leading a healthy balanced lifestyle), these are not the things that have blown me away the most or what will keep me going back.

I have learned life skills that would otherwise seemingly have no correlation to the lifting of olympic weights above my head.

THE MEANING OF YET

The first thing, and probably most important thing, is that I learned the greater meaning of the word ‘yet’.

One of the first coaches I began training with made it very clear that in her class we were not allowed to say the word ‘can’t’ without following it up with a resounding ‘yet’.

For example, ‘I can’t do a push-up’ – or even ‘I can’t do a hand-stand push up!’ (I mean, who can?!?)(…er…besides all those who can, obviously…)(This is CrossFit after all, not a light walk in the park!) was not allowed to be uttered by an upside down huffing me. I had to say ‘I can’t do a push-up - YET’, or ‘I can’t do a hand-stand push up – YET’ and then she would be happy. Even though I still can’t do hand-stand push ups – yet - I learnt that that little word ‘yet’ makes all the difference.

Yet encompasses a vast gulf, the gap between not being able to do it and being able to do it, prop-vol of the unknown and triumph. Thanx to the scaling CrossFit is famous for (there is always a way to scale a workout down to something you are able to do no matter your fitness or strength level) and the strengthening of appropriate muscle groups when doing a particular move, ‘yet’ involves so much more than just doing what you currently can do, or staying in the same place or giving up entirely. Because ‘yet’ is a forward thinking concept. When it comes to scaling, the scale tends to always lean forward.

‘Yet’ has become one of the most important things to me in life now, both in and outside the box. When I quit my job to pursue my dreams, I had no proof that I would succeed, because I couldn’t write a book, couldn’t play the piano – yet. Now I can.

THE CHA-CHA LAB RAT

The next surprising thing I learnt at CrossFit is that I am my own Lab Rat. The coaches, though wonderful leaders and highly qualified trainers who constantly teach and help guide me, have always given me the same message: ‘Pull on your white lab coat and strap on those pink Nanos – it’s your own body and you are the only one who really knows and feels what’s going on inside it.’

When it coms to diet, exercise and even rest, I have become so much more in control of what I do with my body. Joining CrossFit was like being handed the keys to my own future, and now that I am behind the wheel, I am so much happier and have a much better understanding of what is going on inside me. And I like being in control.

I know that CrossFit is not the only way, but for me, it was the first time I really did start to take notice and internalize my progress. Following mapped out schedules, keeping track of my progress in my own log-book app and deciding for myself how far I will be able to push myself each day has done wonders for me. When you really do listen to your body, you need not follow fads or the latest trends in exercise or diet blindly. You can try things out for fun or curiosity, but always in a mindful way.

This means that there is a constant ‘cha-cha-chaa’ going on in my progress. Today I might feel stronger and take two steps forward. Next week I may be dealing with something and am not quite as strong, but then I only take one step back.

I have dealt with a bit of a physical blow the first few months this year after a surgery in December and have not been able to give my workouts quite as much gusto as before. But after feeling really down about it and that I was failing, I realized that I can still do things now in my current recovering state that I could not do before I joined CrossFit over a year ago – two steps forward, one step back. And that’s OK.

No matter how things are going, how my body is healing and progressing, how much I overindulged over the weekend, or how sluggish I may feel after a bad nights sleep, I keep working - and I always end up further along the path to success than I was before I began. This double-sided approach of active patience is extremely helpful to me in this time of recovery.

SLEEP TIGHT AND FIGHT!

Perhaps the most surprising thing of all is the difference CrossFit has made to my dream world, or my nightmare world, to be more specific. 

I suffer from terrible night terrors and have done so since childhood. There is one specific scenario that comes up over and over again in the worst of them, where I am being chased by someone or a group of people, but I am paralyzed in some way – either unable to move my legs, or blinded and can’t see where I’m going, or struck with a voice-sucking black hole inside me so I can’t yell for help no matter how hard I try - and I always get caught. It’s in that terrifying moment when I usually wake up screaming (and freaking poor Husband out).

But ever since I joined CrossFit, I have begun to fight back in these nightmares. I still wake up with heart-palpitations, but instead of getting caught, I am now finding my strength, actively bracing myself to defend, and even doing superhuman things to dissolve the situation. In the most recent one, I jumped up into the air high above my attacking mob’s heads, to give me the time as I came down to breathe deeply and set my core and fists, ready to fight.

Don’t get me wrong – I don’t think CrossFit can make me Super Woman and defy the laws of gravity, but I believe there is a positive change in my conscious and subconscious mind as my body grows stronger. Taking the cha-cha lab rat ownership of my fitness journey (a cornerstone of CrossFit lore) has resulted in me ‘knowing’ I am stronger than before, even in my sleep.

It’s not rah-rah-dead-lift or look-at-me-look-at-me-and-my-muscles… it’s Back-off-would-be-attacker-I-could-kick-your-ass!

So take it from me. If you haven’t joined CrossFit – yet – or you don’t like CrossFit – yet – or if your fitness regime is something you are simply slumping by on in hopes that all the gym-entrance-card-swipes will magically make you skinny, maybe think about how much more you can be gaining while getting fit.

And if you are still anti-CrossFit and afraid of our ‘Strong is the new Skinny’ mantra’s, don’t picture those orange-tanned women on the internet with muscles bulging out left right and center…

Think of me, a girl who couldn’t do a push up. But who can now not only do full unassisted push-ups, but who can also fly!

Love, lust and fairy-star-dust

Cherry Blossom

(Go check out the TaggCrossFit site if you are keen to give it a try too!)

The Not So Spring Chicken

Happy Septermber all! Down here in the southern hemisphere, spring has sprung! The tree’s are budding, the birds are singing…but wait? What is that I see advancing over the ocean from my kitchen window? Another cold front? Winds so strong and grey that their life-consuming colour swells up and blasts the living sparkles out of all those well meaning early budding blossoms? Well how nice, given that I am sick as a dog in bed.

This dreary, ghosts of winter day has got me thinking. Spring this year, thus far, is a bit like me this year, thus far. Many still consider me a ‘spring chicken’ of sorts, but I assure you that lying here, swathed in the dregs of flu, my thirty-three years of spring chicken has found me a little less chickeny lately and a lot more old-farm-hen. My chicklet feathers are not quite so downy, my fluffy tail is not quite so pert and my cute little baby hen claws have developed the ability to not so much tickle adorably as tear the rooster a new one. I don't like being sick one bit, and so, what did I do? Deny deny deny.

I have realized that no matter how far from the chicken facade we come, we will always need a Mother Hen, even if that mommy is your own self (or Husband) looking out for you. Being sick in your 30’s is a great way to slap you up side the head and say ‘Grow up! You’re an adult now, act like one!’

You see, I did not act like an adult at all preceding my demise. Because sick isn't something that happens to me, sick is what happens to other people; People who don't live a balanced lifestyle; People who work too hard, people who don't look after their bodies or eat healthily; People who are too stressed, too tired - not me! I live my life-party on a daily basis, complete with mood-enhancing heels and matching sparkly dress, and the flu monkeys are not on the guest list. But now, the result is this horrible virus confining me to the gloomy dust-ruffles of my bed, and those flu monkeys are throwing their own party in my head!

I was feeling a ‘bit’ under the weather a few weeks ago, but not too bad. Not ‘too bad’ to simply deal with it the way I used to back in the day when I would pop a sinutab and drink a sugar free red bull and be ready to go again. Not ‘too bad’, to stop me from getting up and doing my CrossFit avidly and enthusiastically, and laughing off Husband’s heed when he warned me of all the germs going round like last seasons shoes at a half-off sale. Not ‘too bad’ to stop me from going off to teach my piano students, having after-work drinks, going out every night in the week, staying out way past my bedtime with a friend visiting from the UK, staying up all hours with Husband even when I was at home, never saying no to any offered event, taking myself with Husband fishing and wading in the ice cold mountain water, and walking around at home with no shoes or socks on, even though my feet were cold. The little voice in my head (my Mother, or perhaps inner mother hen) kept saying ‘Your feet are cold! You‘re going to get sick. Your head is sore! You should be in bed. Your ears are hurting from being in this loud place! Your lungs are hurting from being in this smoky place! You should not be here!’ But did I listen? Of course not. No, the spring chicken in me thought she could handle this snivel, this mere head cold that it surely was.

But as it turns out I could not. Perhaps when I actually was a spring chicken I could, but not anymore. Two rounds of anti-biotics, a course of cortisone and one big fat needle injection later, I have finally succumbed to the flu, and the voice in my head simultaneously. So yes Mom, you were right after all. I am staying in bed, allowing Husband to look after me in his sweet way. And the only spring chicken in my immediate future is the one in my soup.

Love, lust and fairy-star-dust

Cherry Blossom

How Models, Magazines and the Modern World ruined my Perception of Myself

I was never 'ugly'. Not really. Sure there was the year I had braces, and the teen-hormone laced tomato-faced flushes, the stupid fashion decisions any 9 year old makes, or 14 year old, or, OK, 15, 16 and 17 year old makes, with the unfortunate photographic evidence certain brothers harbor of a string-bean sproutlette in a baggy T tucked into oversized high waisted jeans. (For the record, when he brings that photo out at gatherings in an 'oh how cute/ugly she was' way, I blame the 80's entirely). I was actually never ugly. But I was an ugly-duckling of sorts. Pointy, awkward, tall, freckly, flat chested, red headed and pale. Wide set eyes in a world that praised bombshells such as Cindy Crawford, who, I noted somewhere along the way to adulthood, had eyes exactly the right distance apart. My eyes are wider than that. And of course I never ever did grow into my front teeth.

Regardless of all of the above, when I reached my early 20's, my string-bean turned to 6 feet of lean. My gawky turned to graceful. I figured out which way was up with a make-up-brush, and my freckles and red-tinged hair turned to something, believe it or not, desirable. All in all, I was doing pretty OK in the looks department. So much so that I became used to being asked 'Are you a model?' by strangers passing by in shopping centers, became accustomed to offers from solicitors of modeling agencies, and reached expert level at fending off advances from would-be suitors who hunted based entirely on looks.

At some point I allowed my own enjoyment of being seen as beautiful get 'all up in there', and took myself off to a modeling agency to sign up. It went great! A passing whirlwind of photo-shoots, calendar prints, champagne parties, free designer dresses, VIP club passes, catwalk attempts and even a few media mentions ensued. I made some money, I did an overseas TV commercial, I got a few killer shots of myself to keep, I started brushing elegant star-dusted shoulders with some of the hot international talent the modeling scene Cape Town had to offer and I met and started dating a truly sculptured specimen that had catwalked alongside the likes of Kate Moss in Milan. (Seriously - he had abs that looked as though they were carved from stone!) It was nothing if not fun and fabulous. Except that it wasn’t.

Happier times? Look closer. I absolutely hated this shoot.

Have you ever felt beautiful? You had a morning where everything just worked? Your hair woke up on the right side of the ghd, your skin glowed, and any puffiness was situated in your cleavage area rather than directly below your eyes? You managed to dress that particularly toit little ass in a particularly gorgeous little outfit, full of effortless glamour and glowing mirror appraisal - only to walk into a room and find that you are sitting next to Miss South Africa...making your fluff fall flat, your fab turn drab, and basically watch in horror as your so-thought-beauty shriveled and deflated like a popped air balloon?

Well I had that happen to me - literally. Not only with a former Miss SA at the time (Vanessa Carrera) but many times before that, in fact, EVERY time before that when I went to a casting. For those who don’t know, a casting is a nice glossed-up magazine-world word for kick-you-in-the-nads. Before modeling, I would walk into a room and be one of the top 10% best looking girls there. But when I started going to castings, I would walk into a room and be just another one of the models. Just another tall, leggy woman with firm thighs and perfect skin. And in all honesty, not even in the top 10 tall leggy women with firm thighs and perfect skin. I was no Charlize! I was a small-timer, average. I had to keep my diet to below 1000 calories a day, exercise frequently at a bare minimum, tripple-stuff my bra, and I needed, as a smart career move, to keep my looks as 'current' as the agency saw fit to try get work. I had to fry my skin at a sunbed tanning salon, loose all discretion when it came to dressing in public (albeit publically female, thank goodness) and stand while older, raggier women diminished me to a clothes horse with no mind - just a body. And even that was not good enough. I did not like the make-up that was caked on my face, dark contours coloured in to try fake my wide-set eyes closer. I did not enjoy the 5am photo shoots on the beach in freezing conditions where I was told to look 'less pissed off', or the strict 3-weeks-bfore-any-show lettuce and water diet, or the play-monkey demands of casting agents that ranged from 'now turn' to 'squat more like a stripper!' I was hungry, miserable, and felt ugly. Permanently ugly. But the photo's were what needed to look good, and I had to suck in my empty stomach because it wasn't thin enough, stick out my gym-stiff rear because it wasn't pert enough, my chest never did come to the party, and I had to hold my arm above my light-headed head for what seemed like hours in attempts to capture a single magazine moment. Only to be told 'We're going in a different direction for the cover', and my photo's wouldn’t be used. My very hard earned size 8 was simply not enough. I was inferior to the other models, the better models. The ones who could stay super skinny, pout at the camera, and fill out a decent cup-size while doing it. I started to develop that horrible 'Look at her - ugh, I hate her!' monologue I have always been against. I had to fight myself to remember that it's not her I hate, it's the way I feel.

I HATE HER...oh wait...thats me

And I think that's when it started. I started to just blame myself. To compare myself, to judge myself, to take myself down to a disgustingly shallow level of 'Is my butt high enough? Is my chin chiseled enough? Is my upper arm toned enough?' It wasn’t something I verbalized - but I raged against the whole industry till the point where I quit, saying that I would rather be myself than a wisp of what they wanted me to be. But even though I tried to let on that I didn’t care, it was the beginning of a now never ending argument I have with myself in the mirror on a daily basis, internalizing all that hatred. I don’t remember having these worries as a gawky teenager - I accepted who I was then and didn’t place much inner-peace on how I looked. Now, I page through a fashion magazine, a cooking magazine, even a fishing magazine and I immediately feel inferior to the images portrayed in the pages. But it's like heroine. I cant stop. I even use the images here in my blog! (yes, the irony is not wasted on me) But you see I LIKE pretty things. I WANT to see them, admire them, appreciate their beauty...but the problem comes when I then go and hate myself for not being one of them.

I struggle to believe that any man would find me attractive anymore if I was placed in a line-up situation with the models, that I would never be the top 10 but rather left out completely. Why do I even care? I am happily married and do what I can to stay fit and healthy, dress well and look generally acceptable, but still I believe that I am not beautiful. The weight that has found me in my 30's mocks me and I honestly don’t understand why I give it a voice. My now Size 12 practically screams hate-crimes at me every time I see a photo of myself, but why do I listen? Is it this unrealistic image I have learnt to hold myself up to? Is it the image that keeps getting held up to me, on billboards, in shop windows, on screens, on the covers and in the pages of every magazine out there? On my own blog? They even use these models to sell fast food that not only rips our inner bodies apart, but does so with the most spectacular 'Hulk-ish' results! Only instead of muscles bursting out of clothes, its more like the inner Michelin Man making an appearance. Lets admit it, no one ever uses the girl who lives on french fries to sell french fries. So why do we keep portraying these images of the super skinny? And more specifically, why do I feel personally attacked by it all?

On WHAT planet?!?

I know I am not alone in feeling this way. There is a world of women out there who looks at the very same images as me and feels inferior. Perhaps it's a bit more ingrained in me thanks to my own time spent as one of the models in those pages, or do we all feel this way? Perhaps its an escalating problem the modern world is perpetuating, presenting a picture perfect image of what we woman should be. An *ahem* airbrushed image to be precise. It's the 50's housewife all over again, only now instead of rolling-pins, pearls and cinched-in aprons, it's skinny thighs, handle-less abs and sky-high lashes. I mean, what does that even mean!? The world should just be honest, and instead of sporting headlines like 'Have It All, AND Stay Thin' or '5 Minutes to the Perfect You' or 'Wow Him in the Bedroom', rather just say, "What? You don’t have a career, 2.5 kids and a happy satisfied husband while looking like Victoria Beckham? What's wrong with you?!" I feel as though the whole world expects me to be superwoman, when in actual fact, it's just me who expects that.

And today I shall save all the world, one perfect lunge at a time...

I don’t know what the answer is. I don’t believe that the entire industry should shut down, and I am in no way blaming all those beautiful images for my problem, but I don’t know how to stop the self-destructive inner judgment when I do see them. Maybe I should just get over it and moveon.com. Of course skin-deep beauty isn’t the only place I find my value. I have many other facets where I excel and can develop, and so maybe I should just try to invest myself in them rather than the completely useless activity of feeling 'ugly'. Maybe I should come up with a mantra of words, values to chant to myself when I look at a gorgeous tanned FHM model with 0% body fat and feel like blobby insects are creeping around all over my thighs. Words such as Kind, Loving, Good natured; Like Helping people, having Integrity, being Honest; Such as being Creative, Loyal, Companionate...but will that work? I fear that the need for 'thin' is so ingrained in me that it will still plague me. Whatever the anecdote, a bandaid over feeling ugly and inferior won't take that feeling away. And something tells me that this is only going to get worse.

Well, on a bad day at any rate. I guess on a good day I can rise above it, forget about it, ignore it, laugh at it even. There are days where I appreciate my gained mass - love my curves. Now I actually do look like a woman, not a straight-up-and-down skeletal ladyboy. And after all, I do have those photo's that I can keep for the rest of my life to look at and remember when I was still young and beautiful.

Sigh. I don’t know. I just don’t know. If you know the answer to returning to the child who doesn't see or concern herself with these things, please let me know.

The real 'before' picture...

Love, lust and fairy-star-dust

Cherry Blossom

Moderately Obsessed: Gym Edition

I have always been an advocate of healthy living. Fruit and veggies are a big part of my diet, water is still my favorite drink (even beats champagne, believe it or not), and I was never one of those people who had gym memberships purely for the medical aid benefits. My membership cards were swiped regularly because I actually went to the gym. Regularly.

I am currently doing ballet, I went through phases where I did a lot of yoga, sometimes I went to fun jumpity, kick boxy kinds of classes and I certainly know my way around the Elliptical.

But all things in moderation (except shoes and things that sparkle) (and fluffy stuff)

Even though I have been active and busy trying to stay healthy, I wouldn’t say I have ever been extremely fit. The idea of running marathons exhausts me and makes me feel like a cup of tea and a lie down. A nice climb up a mountain is something I will only do at my OWN pace thank you very much, and only if I can do it while stopping to smell the fynboss along the way. And anything that involves bikes? Oh HELL no.

But then I was introduced to something new by a friend. CROSSFIT. It’s gym, but on a whole new level! Said friend was pregnant at the time, and she still looked more amazing than me or most of my female friends. Her husband is a crossfitter too, and he looks more amazing than most of my male friends. So I took a good long look at them, and at this thing they call Crossfit, and realized, I want me a piece of that.

My current state of exercise was just not enough. I wanted to up my game, take it to the next level, and look more amazing than I have ever looked! I wanted to feel strong, not just healthy. Fit, not just skinny. And also, my baby making time is coming soon…I am going to need to be strong and healthy and ready for it! I can't be waking up late feeling all sluggish from that mid-week second glass of wine, putting off the morning walk on the promenade for an extra half hour in bed. I can’t be trying to get rid of a pizza bulge round my middle when I have bigger fish to fry: The dreaded baby weight. No, it was time for me to take it up a notch and get serious.

After all, if I don’t work on that six-pack now, when will I ever get there?

And so I joined Crossfit. WHAT a rush! The training is hard but so much fun. I didn’t expect to love it so much – after all, it still involves hard sweat – but something about the structure of it all, the people, the way we all work together and help encourage each other makes me enjoy the work outs immensely and actually look forward to going to gym. I would say I feel somewhat obsessed about it! I even jumped on board with their whole eating plan regime and now am fully converted to eating a ZONE based diet. (well, 80% zone at any rate)

Now don't get me wrong. All things in moderation. I have started off slowly, with 2 to 3 workouts a week. I'm more newbee than ninja, and so need to scale a lot of my work outs, meaning I do my push-ups from my knee's and my version of a 'toes-to-bar' is a 'knees-to-chest'. But to be able to do a hand-stand push-up one day? Yea, that would be pretty awesome. Plus, I got to go shopping for a new pair of shoes, 'specially designed for Crossfit :)

This week, 2 months into Crossfitting, I hit my first real achievement. It's called a PB (personal best) and I did my first PB of a weight noteworthy enough to get included on the board with all the other names. Up till now my weights have been too low. But yesterday, even though my PB was the lowest one scored on the board, it was still the highest I personally have ever scored! Hence PB :) I did a 42.6kg back squat - which is more than double my last attempt! (last time I only got to 19kgs) This on top of doing 96 lunges, 60 V-ups, skipping, and a bunch of other stuff. So I feel pretty good about myself right now, and pretty on track to getting that proverbial six-pack before baby!

I do, however, also feel pretty stiff and sore, and have not been able to walk normally all day ;)

Love, lust and fairy-star-dust

Cherry Blossom

*pictures taken from the Cape Crossfit Facebook page