Hell Weak

“If you’re going through hell, keep going.”

-Winston Churchill


Hell is relative.

One person’s hell is not the same as another’s. For some people, it’s the horrific death of a loved one. For others, it’s the experience of being burned alive. But very few people would willingly put themselves through their own private hell (I think that’s the definition of a sadist?).

So I’m a sadist. I’m sick. And I’m willingly subjecting myself to hell week at my gym because I HAVE TO HAVE a tank top proclaiming this.

Here’s my week. I’m in three days of the required five. And I’ve decided that I need accountability. Also documentation if I die.

Day One-The Hills Have Thighs

Normally an endurance workout. But they aren’t doing that today. And I’m in a time slot I normally don’t go to with one of the bad-assest coaches I could have. Attendance is down, so a normal three group rotation is down to one. Which makes me visible. On a Monday.

Hills. Running. Hills. Geezus, she knows my name, so I get the cock eye as she assesses my pace, and a raised eyebrow which means, “really?”

Really. Expletive. Hard.

Get called out at the rower.

“Abby, did you hear what I said?”

“No.” (In my defense, I was helping a new person. . . OK, looking like a know-it-all. Fine.)

“Great, we’ll waste another thirty seconds and I’ll explain it again.”


End of the day, I take an Aleve. Hoping it will help tomorrow.

Day Two-Jack The Clipper

Still achy. Can’t imagine how it would feel if I had skipped my Aleve cocktail (which included copious amounts of wine). But here I am!

It happens to be one of my favorite trainer’s day. But since he shows up in a yellow wig and silver running shorts, maybe it’s not so serious?

Oh no. It is.

MORE HILLS?! Oh yes. 7%, 5%, 3% inclines. We also have floor exercises that start at 100 reps and work down to 10. If you can hang. Which I couldn’t.

So. . .I can’t feel my legs by the end of class (except in the beginning, when I could feel the ghost of YESTERDAY’S workout). Another Aleve cocktail tonight? Oh yes, please.

Big mistake.

Day 3- The Sixth Sets

Oh. My. A hangover is NEVER a good way to walk into an Orangetheory workout on a regular day. This is worse. This trainer knows my name and my personal bests.Which she won’t let me slack off of.

She also likes to sing as she is torturing us.

Run/row sequences are usually a nice place to hang out. But today, I get placed next to this big guy. For some reason, when I get next to a guy trying to push himself, it makes me want to prove to him I can hang. Which is silly, since A: I’m hungover and this will hurt, and B: He’s not even watching me to care.

I hit a personal best. . .not sure how. But I think I annihilated my hangover. I left it crying in a puddle of sweat.

And the 6x6x6 sets on the floor meant heavy weights and step-ups. Balance? Not working so well today.

Maybe Aleve does not actually need an alcohol accelerator. I think I’ll lay off the sauce tonight.

An ambulance outside waiting to carry us off

Day 4- Silence of the Limbs

Not as sore . . .could it be I hit my stride?

Not likely. I think I’m just numb. Which is how my arms felt at the end of today. All the hard work today was on the floor, all bicep and tricep insane reps. All led by a trainer wearing board shorts, a mismatched flowered shirt and a preppy visor I felt like smacking off his head.

He was very supportive. But it’s a love/hate thing.

I keep reminding myself: there is a freaking shirt at stake here, ok? It’s a shirt. It’s a shirt.

It’s a damn shirt. . . that they’ll end up burying me in.

My mom says, “What happened to that, ‘everyone gets a trophy’ mentality that’s so popular these days? Shouldn’t everyone get a shirt if they at least try?”

I think she was being facetious. But I’m too fatigued to accurately determine that.

Day 5- Trick Or Treat


I got a substantial break. I was going for a five day sprint to the finish, but Halloween carnival and weekend Halloween carnival hangover (no, that had nothing to do with alcohol. . .see my blog to come) prevented that.

Feeling fat and lazy Saturday night, I thought a good dose of hot yoga before Monday would do some good. But I think my muscles rebelled. The break had caused them to believe that their hell was over, and they were not having it. Ahem.

Oh, for God’s sake. Just bring it on, already.

Oh goodie! We get to pick out of a sadistic smiling jack-o-lantern to determine the intensity of our workout. . .WHEEEE!

Oh, shut up.

Three groups means a third of the class is spent rowing. . . WHEEEE!

I pick 3100 meters to row. . . Twice. WEEEEEAK.

And as the workout progresses, I have to wonder what the good-God-flippin’ difference it makes whether you pick a “trick” or a “treat”. See, to me, a treat involves chocolate. Wine. A massage. Not 20 reps of pop jacks. I snuck a peek in the pumpkin and looked at a “trick” card for reference.

31 burpees. Ah. OK.

But I MADE IT!!! I conquered my body demons this week! Whoo WOO!!

So, where’s the shirt?

“They’ll be in tomorrow. First come, first serve.”

Um. . . huh?

Nobody better lay a finger on my Butterfinger. There’ll be hell to pay.



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