I'm a mom. "What am I doing here?" I ask. One look at me, and you'd say I'd be a better fit at a scrapbooking club than this. I scan the room. Every one in the fitness room is either half my age or twice as fit. Suddenly, a wave of self defeating thoughts hits me like a Tsunami and they begin to drown out the sound of my own fast-paced, beating, heart.
"How in the world am I going to keep up with these people? Just look at those two guys with Arnold-sized arms and svelte bodies.
Suddenly, the fitness instructor starts barking jumping combinations: "JUMP up! Burpees! DOWN! OPEN YOUR LEGS AND BRING YOUR KNEES TO YOUR CHEST WHEN YOU JUMP! Come'on...IT'S-- EASY!!!"
"Umm... sure! for... YOU!!! You weigh like 98 stinkin' pounds!!! I could pick you up, boomerang you across the room, and you'd come right back to me cause you're so light and aerodynamic." Suddenly, my thoughts defer to writing a book about the 101 ways I could do that, but nonetheless, I manage to move my heavy-lead feet off the ground,and I start wincing from what seems like crystals digging into my heels. "The inflammation will go away if I don't think about it," I say. We are then asked to sprint around the building and a flood of fluid rushes to my calves and my muscles begin to contract in painful waves, making them stiff like concrete, and I begin to slow down. I make it around the building and I'm asked to toss a 65 lb bag over my shoulders. My quads are now-on- FIRE!!!
"Just walk out now and save yourself the embarrassment," says my head. Another distant voice begins to nag on the opposite ear and whispers something someone once told me, "You could never be an instructor...you don't have the command presence..."
Mad is what I get! A wave of solidarity drowns out what I'm thinking, and I become resolved. I'm reminded of a quote by Martin Luther King, "If you can't fly, then run. If you can't run, then walk. If you can't walk, then crawl, but whatever you do, keep-moving-FORWARD!" I tell myself that even if I'm the last one there, crawling on my hands and knees, I'm gonna finish this, and by the grace of what appears to be God's power or sheer stubborn will, I do.
This was my second tryout for the Krav Maga instructor apprentice program, and since I didn't make the first cut months before, I was determined to make it this time around. Losing the weight had definitely been a long, drawn out process, and it seemed like I had finally gotten to a place in my life where I was moving forward.
Then I tore my medial tendon on my foot, November 2011, and I was back to where I started. Things compounded with the
I welcomed January 2013 with a positive attitude, knowing that this would be the year I would go to Phase A, the Level 1, Krav Maga instructor test. During a sparring session, I tore my MCL on a buck and roll-- that's when you buck someone straddling his weight on you and you roll to one side to get him off. I was back to where I started, and my confidence level plummeted. But I resolved myself to HEAL! Even Instructor Temple Vein (see story You Want Me to Kick Him Where?) was concerned. "I'm not concerned about your skill, but I'm afraid you're going to get injured he said! Your partner is going to MAUL you!"
What do you say to that? "Ummm...thanks?" *chuckle*chuckle*wink*wink*
I cycled-- ALOT! One particular female instructor who I HIGHLY respect and admire took it upon herself to give me a personal daily workout and diet program. The healing process began. Instructor Temple Vein kept expressing his concern about not making it out alive. It's funny, but I think in his way he was trying to tell me he was worried about me...I hope! Aaaah... Can you feel the love?
One day, I had finally had it and said, "Have I EVER disappointed you?! You get me there, and I will do whatever it takes, even take medication to keep me in one piece." That was the end of that discussion.
It didn't matter. I started this, and I was going to finish IT!
(To be continued...see Part 2)
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