Last week, with one of my best friends in town and my distractions heightened, I took a one-day break from 30-day shred. That one day break has turned into holy moly, I stopped 30 day shred. After day 16. But let me explain.
I took a day off but I continued to workout by running, hitting the elliptical and the stair stepper at the gym, and doing my ab work. Above all, though, I continued the brutality of Level 2 by continuing with my walking push-ups. And I hate push-ups. Like, truly hate. Like, last time I went to boot camp the trainer said to me, “You must be a cardio girl.” And when I said yes he said, “Can’t wait to see you do push-ups.” And when I flat failed, he said, “Yea, cardio’s definitely your thang.” Except he said “thing,” which I don’t think is allowed in South Carolina.
ANYWAY. A walking push-up requires that you stand up straight, legs unbent, feet hip-width apart, and you bend at the waist and touch the floor in front of your toes, walking yourself out into push-up positions. NEVER BENDING YOUR KNEES. Then you do one push-up. Walk your hands back toward your body until your legs are vertical and your hands are in front of your toes, and stand straight up. And repeat. Until you die, pretty much.
Seriously. Go. Try it. And I dare you to tell me you don’t break a sweat.
So one day last week I was doing my walking push-ups while watching The Lovely Bones with Mom and Dad. A tell-tale sign I have become my mom, who frequently does yoga in the middle of a movie. (And I used to think she was so weird.)
All was fine in love and push-ups. Until the next day, when I turned my ignition. And when I put my car in drive. And then when I reached for the phone at work. Ow, arm, ow.
That night I returned to the gym and after excelling – ha – at my cardio, I tried to do walking push-ups again. And, seriously, I ALMOST FELL OVER. In public. I am not a confident enough person to almost fall over, at the gym, while there are people watching me, and be able to walk away without some sort of bruise – physical or otherwise.
Since then I’ve been able to “relatively” forget the pain. I’ve avoided upper body exercises. I’ve accused my broken ankled bff of inflicting contagious gimpiness upon me. I’ve tried to shag and then shouted in pain – and to my date’s horror – that that just wasn’t going to be happening any more.
And to everyone else, I’ve cried. Cried “where is my ice pack” and “I need more Advil” and “this is ridiculous” and “of all my injuries, THIS IS THE ONE I HATE THE MOSTEST.”