I believe in manicures. I believe in overdressing. I believe in primping at leisure and wearing lipstick. I believe in pink. I believe happy girls are the prettiest girls. I believe that tomorrow is another day, and... I believe in miracles. ~Audrey Hepburn
So tonight, after work, I was finally peer pressured into facing my irrational fear of sculpt head-on. I know what you're thinking. What is so scary about sculpt? And to be honest, I'm not entirely sure. What I do know is that I have heard so many horror stories, and while I am an active person, I am so very afraid of living one of those horror stories firsthand.
Sure, I run and crossfit on a regular basis. I dabble in yoga and barre. But sculpt, the masochistic combination of flow and weights and cardio and dance all jam-packed into one sixty-minute class, makes me stomach churn.
But as I will try (almost) anything once, I committed to go. I tried to back out. I packed three outfits. I nervously peed ever ten minutes. I had sweaty armpits. I felt barfy. But I went.
The studio was like 900 degrees. And crowded. And I was surrounded by my coworkers, all who sculpt on the regular. I was terrified.
the 5lb weights were merely for show
Jessie, who I can only describe as a masochistic, dancing machine, super hottie, took us through 60 of the brutal-est yoga-esque minutes in my life. Fast feet. High knees. KICK KICK KICK. Crescent...deeper, deeper, deeper....HOLD. Chatarunga. Repeat. Push up. Plank. Mountain Climbers. FASTER. Slower. Hold. FML. My muscles cried, my coordination was tested, I desperately tried to breathe and keep up. It was like a cracked out dance party with weights. And somehow, she made it look good. Real good.
The thing of it is, I feel like I am dying during these types of classes. My breathe is short, my shoulders hurt, my quads quiver, and I generally feel miserable. But somehow, the day after, I'm never sore (at least not from barre). In the moment, I cannot push through. I cannot seem to hold things quite deep enough for quite long enough, and I bail on the weights from time to time. I know...get comfortable with being uncomfortable. I get it, but cannot seem to do it.
Did I barf? Nope. Would I go back? Maybe. Will this be my sweat of choice? No.
As my luck would have it, I woke up sick the day I had to fly to Boston. Sore throat, stuffy nose, foggy head, yuck. Not that I was going to let that put a damper on my trip, especially when god invented DayQuil.
Two uneventful flights later, I was rendezvous-ing with my other Ragnarly peeps and headed to the startline hotel for some NyQuil and sleep.
Today after our meetings and race prep, we headed into Boston to check out a few of the sights.
I can only assume that when it Boston, you are automatically a Red Sox fan.
The closest I'll ever get to the Boston marathon finishing line...
Dinner and early to bed wrap up my day as I have an early morning, and a long day, tomorrow.