June 24, 2014 § 2 Comments
I’m 30 and a half this month, and although I was alright with it at first, it’s just now settling into some kind of fear. Here is a post about turning 30 I wrote right before I turned 28 (yea, I was worrying about it 2 years before it actually happened, possible head case over here). For some reason, recounting my adult tendencies (or lack of) is comforting. I think my thirties are going to be quite dirty after all.
30 isn’t all that bad, it’s just marks the end of the 20s. 30 means you’re farther away from collage and closer to grandchildren, farther away from high school varsity sports and closer to water aerobics, further away from leveling your parent’s liquor bottles with water and closer to discovering your kids put water in the vodka.
They say time speeds up and your metabolism slows down. They say in a blink of an eye you go from 30 to 40. It’s some sort of middle age time machine. Fortunately for my generation, 30 is the new 20 and with the current economic climate there isn’t much of a stigma anymore for living in your parent’s basement. However, no matter how young we feel or how powerful our denial is, you can’t fight the aging process. 30 will always represent a milestone for the perkiness of your ass and titties. And even though we like to cover it with the veil of the “new 20” by 30 you should really have your shit together.
I’m talking adult tendencies. Cooking a balanced meal for your party of one instead of just eating an entire box of cheese its for dinner. Not sleeping past 10am on a Saturday. Gardening. Home décor and having “colors.” Flossing. Knowing what gives you gas and avoiding those foods. Finally learning the importance of breakfast and that laundry will never ever be done. Packing your bags the night before. In fact, doing anything the night before. Saying ‘no’ to the third glass of wine on a Wednesday. Making your bed, everyday. Asking guests take off their shoes when they enter your house. Calling them ‘guests.’ Asking yourself, “is this outfit too slutty for me?” These things creep up on you. You’re doing it, being an adult.
You might eat the occasional Cosco-sized tub of hummus in a week or have a Tuesday morning hangover. Sometimes we have popcorn for dinner or forget to water the flowers. But we feel guilty about it. It’s not that we know better, because we’ve always known that flossing is a good thing and baked goods are a friendly gesture. It’s that we’ve put these adult tendencies into practice and now understand the benefits.
You actually feel good after eating vegetables and making a To-Do list. Everything’s more calculated. You do things just because you have to get up early the next day and you’re less likely to suggest shots at happy hour. You’re a planning machine. You have a planner that’s synced with your phone, your computer, there’s one on the wall, on your desk, in your pocket. You plan for the near future, you plan for the far future, you plan for your future bathroom breaks by purchasing toilet paper in bulk.
I hear it now, it’s ticking all right. People I know are getting married. People are on their second or third kids. Some people are even on their second husbands! You got to keep up with that clock. If you’re single you start getting serious about finding Mr. Right. Or you try to turn Mr. Right Now in to Mr. Right, which might not be too difficult if he has a 401K. You aren’t just circle-hearting your crush in your yearbook, you got to get on the internet and find a husband. Done are the years of sleeping past noon and eating ramen noodles. Done are the years of singing into your hairbrush and making eyes to your life-sized cardboard cut out of Jonathan Taylor Thomas. Done are the years of putting soda in the Brita filter just to see what happens. You know what happens. It’s just brown water that tastes a little sweet. Face it, you’re a grown up. Well, maybe not a complete grown up, there is that beach party next week with a couple kegs. But it’s okay, you have adult tendencies: you don’t have to get up early and you’ll say no to the nut mix because it’ll give you gas.
June 17, 2014 § Leave a comment
Some days I’m just astonished at life and living for so long. Seeing the changes in the world and becoming more worldly myself. Kids these days… they don’t even know. Youth really is wasted on the young. Here is a list of several things about modern teenagers that are currently blowing my mind. I seriously cannot get over it. Please feel free to comment with your own mind blowing, gone-are-the-days nostalgia.
1. Passing notes. Do kids not pass notes between classes anymore? Because of texting? I can’t tell you how many times I’d go to lunch and ask someone, “did you read my note?” And how horrified I’d be if it got into the wrong hands. Or the worst threat in the world, if a teacher caught you passing a note in class and read it aloud. My high school best friend and I had a notebook we would pass between each other on a daily basis. We were so very connected at the hip that we could not go a full hour without at least writing down our thoughts to each other. It was therapeutic and co-dependant. We’d reach between a sea of people in the crowded main hallway to hand off our scroll, “Sorry, I couldn’t write that much, we had a quiz,” arms stretching past jocks and goths in a dramatic gesture, pain stricken by the fact that we couldn’t really talk until lunch time. High Schoolers today don’t know the horror.
2. Phone cords. Before I got my license I was attached to the phone in the kitchen. The one that had the longest cord. I would take most of my calls in the pantry secretly snacking on Oreos until we got a cordless phone. Even when we had the cordless, it would die after an hour of talking and I’d be back tangled up in the pantry. Teenagers today don’t know the paranoia of a watching for a hungry family member spying on your conversation. But then again, they probably aren’t allowed to eat Oreos either.
3. Stamps! I have not encountered this type of mail ignorance, but apparently kids these days don’t know what a postage stamp is for, how to acquire one, or where to put it on the letter. I was shocked too. Next time you see a 13-year-old inquire about stamps. Curious to heard their answers regarding these mysterious letter stickers.
4. Landlines. That moment when you call your crush and their MOM answers the phone. You have to put on your most polite voice and ask very nicely to speak to a boy you know very little about. And then the dreaded question comes from her, “who’s this?” Which was an honest question because caller ID was the fancy new thing and the population had yet to embrace it. People were still trying to get a handle on the answering machine. A household land line was a great tool for parents to monitor their child’s social activity. My dad be like, “Who’s that Eric that keeps calling the house?” Also, that moment when you are speaking profanities about some bitch you hate only to realize your mom picked up trying to make a call and heard that whole thing. Grounded from the phone for a week for inappropriate language. This type of telephone interaction is completely obsolete now that every 4th grader has an iPhone.
5. Albums and the Walkman. Kids these days are just collecting songs onto playlists. They don’t appreciate the flow of an album. Listening to it all the way through, looking at the album art as you listen to each song learning the words. And that one song you want to like for the sake of the whole, but you always skip it and think, “ugh, why did they put this song on there?” The 90s was the rise of portability. I do not think I would have survived riding the school bus for 10 years without my trusty walkman and the alternative rock station. I did eventually graduate to a discman, which grew my appreciation for albums, but carrying around that many cds to satisfy any mood was taxing on my shoulders. Lamenting about this and some youngster asks, “What’s a CD?” Holy shit, they don’t know what a CD is! Things just hit a whole new level.
6. Disposable Camera Selfies. You had no clue if you were aiming right. Also, that moment when you get your photos back, revealing moments you didn’t even know you captured all at once. Sitting in your car because you literally cannot wait to sift through the whole stack to devour the memories, even if there are a couple shots of the inside of your purse. This instant gratification stuff is really ruining the element of surprise.
7. The Video Store. The agony and the triumph of renting a movie. Rows and rows of movies. Shiny new releases are almost always all out. You feel so lucky when there is one left. Looking at the alphabetized layers searching for that title. Is it a drama or a comedy? It’s funny but it’s kind of dark. There is no Dramedy section and you end up finding it in Horror for what ever reason/the clerk is stoned. What if you can’t remember the title? How the hell do you figure it out without Google or IMDB? “You know that one with the guy, long hair and the big quiet one? I can’t remember the title, but it’s hilarious.” The scenario feels like an end of days role playing game, but it wasn’t that long ago. I went through 4 years of film school before instant streaming, Hollywood Video was a trusted ally. It was clear Blockbuster was under a corporate conglomerate because their selection paled in comparison. These places always had that same distinct smell too. The dusty plastic of the video store and the forbidden “Must Be 18” section. Modern dinosaurs.
8. Dial Tone. So you really know, with absolute certainty, that person really did hang up on you. Now if we get disconnected, I’m still talking to myself for the next three minutes because I think you’re still on the line.
9. MTV. I grew up without cable. Most of the time my parents told me to go play outside. MTV was all about music and not about teen moms. So when everyone at school was referring to a must see music video, I had to recruit a friend to let me sit for several hours watching MTV waiting to see said music video that was going to blow my mind. Video really did kill the radio star (but then podcasts revived it).
10. The News. We didn’t have instant access to constant news feeds in our pockets so we had to beg the teacher to turn on the classroom television so we could watch the verdict of the OJ trial. Getting a piece written about you in the local paper was a big deal because EVERYONE was reading the same paper. Today you gotta post articles to everyone’s wall, tag others, and link bait shit to get people to read something about you. Information was communal because we watched, read, listened, and learned together. I remember learning Chris Farley died from listening to the radio while my friend’s brother drove the carpool. We reacted together, had a moment of shock, a moment of silence, and then had many laughs about living in a van down by the river. SNL was also something you had to stay up late on Saturday night for. There was no Hulu or DVR. You either saw it or had to suffer through everyone else’s Adam Sandler impressions until you saw the rerun in the summer. However, this might actually hurt the story teller and impressions of the next generation. Maybe that’s why SNL’s heyday was in the 90s? Chew on that.
11. Library Science. The worst thing about writing a report was having to find your topic in the encyclopedias. Heaven forbid if you were doing a report on penguins but the person who was researching pennies got the book first. Traditional libraries were great, but they were also finite. Kids these days can’t use the excuse, “I need an extension because the book I needed wasn’t in the library.” Also, dewey decimal system anyone?
12. Nextel. Blee-bleep. Might have been just me and my middle of nowhere booney town, but Nextel’s had the best service and everyone had one. No one actually called one another, we walkie/talkied all the time. It was hilarious good fun, especially in department stores. If you Blee-bleeped someone and they didn’t answer, you alerted them like a pager. Then you just had to wait to see if they got the alert. There was no voice mail. It was really easy to stay off the grid and much more fun to play hide and seek. Kids these days don’t even know.
13. Playing Grab Ass. Not the fun adult kind. You couldn’t just send a mass text or make a Facebook invite, it was all word of mouth. You were constantly chasing one another most weekends cursing for the best place to be. This is what we’d call playing grab ass. Most of the time if you didn’t have anything to do, you’d end up at the Taco Bell parking lot. Or if you did have something to do, you’d meet in the Taco Bell parking lot. Or if you needed directions you would follow someone from the Taco Bell parking lot. Or you’d just drive around until you got hungry and then head back to Taco Bell for a chalupa supreme without tomatoes.
What am I missing? Leave a comment with something you can’t believe kids these days don’t have/don’t have to deal with.
June 10, 2014 § 2 Comments
In honor of my FOUR YEAR (gasp! that’s a lot in kid years!) Anniversary-ish/thing with Mister Red, I wanted to reprise a post from 2010 about the day we met. The day we now call Double Wink Day (aka Game 6 of the NBA Playoffs). What a fantastic muse he has been. I look forward to a lifetime of adorable antidotes about this goofy human. Okay, they aren’t all adorable, but they are all at least funny.
Sometimes you meet a man, and within the first 30 seconds your posture sinks, your head tilts, and you need a handkerchief to wipe up the drool. Most of the time it starts with his sly, corner-of-the-eye smile. It’s subtle, but you know it’s just for you.
Hold on, while I peel my chin off the floor, try to form actual sentences, and attempt to remember my name, and my age. Ahem, definitely my age. It was just a little ol’ smile. Total swoon. It’s the trifecta of the charming man, and no woman is safe from his spell.
These men glow with God-given charisma, a twinkle in the eye, a gentle nod, saying the punch line at the exact right moment even if it is about farts. Suddenly, all the women in the room are running into walls, tripping over their own shoelaces, and kissing babies who aren’t their own, spontaneously blinded by the stars in their eyes. All the single gals engage their claws.
He becomes a trophy synonymous with a bride’s bouquet. Never underestimate the ultimate power-move: the bouquet toss. We have all seen enough America’s Funniest Home Videos to be aware of the danger in this sport.
The trifecta is a perfectly balanced cocktail of boyish charm, old-fashioned sensibility, and sharp whit with hints of kindness and worldliness. He’s the man who will buy you a drink, subtly reveal a past heartbreak, crack jokes about current events, and at the same time weave in his admiration for his mother, love for animals, and desire to be a daddy one day. All while telling you that you are the most gorgeous woman he’s ever laid eyes on. You believe every word. Lap it up, kitty. Think 007, Jack Dawson (never let go), Danny Ocean, Batman, Will Hunting, or anything Jon Hamm has played recently. Okay, maybe just Jon Hamm, the person.
I experienced such an encounter with a striking ginger-haired bartender. You know I love a red beard. If I had a type it would be: Irish. With an Irishman I know what I’m getting: maybe a temper, most likely a drinking problem, but for certain, a fun loving guy with a sensitive side. Not to mention, Irishmen are the most loyal of them all.
I was meeting some Celtics fans to watch the battle in Game 6 of the NBA playoffs against the hometown heroes, the LA Lakers. Having lived in Boston only a short while before moving to Los Angeles, my allegiance didn’t lie what-so-ever with the shamrocks and as a Michigan girl, the Pistons weren’t doing much for me either. But a former flame was rumored to be in attendance, so… Go Celts!
Regardless, I love a game of ball with a beer and old friends. Boston fans are fiercely devoted (most of them Irish, case in point) therefore innately the Beantown Bar we were attempting to cram into was at max capacity. Plan B: throw a stone, hit an Irish Pub, order a pint, and you’ll be in the good company of loud Mass-holes.
I searched for my friends at the second pub. My scan of the playoff crowd was pleasantly interrupted by a tall Irish bartender. Pleasant is an understatement. It was magical; slow motion, soft focus with a wind machine. He was a blonde prince charming. Not a hair out of place. Perfectly coiffed, as though it had been taken out of one of Mattel’s fine Ken molds that morning. His shoulders broad and strong, piped with budding biceps. This boy ate his spinach. He was sure a tall drink of water too, really long legs. Hello, blue eyes! Oh that group of loud bumbling Boston fans harassing you? Yeah… unfortunately, I’m with them. I’ll just take my Guinness and be over here, mortified, if you need me.
One could assume I no longer was there to watch the game. The the former flame, the Tall Musician? Oh, at that time, I couldn’t have told you what instrument he played. Maybe the obo? Of course I tried to play it cool as I watched the ginger’s every move, gracefully dancing from one end of the bar to the other, sharing his winning smile with lucky patrons. Certainly, I wasn’t the only one who noticed his charm. Even the burly couch jockeys I came in with were making side comments and developing man-crushes. Good, so it’s not just me, he actually is making it hot in here. This man possessed the power to turn straight eyes gay.
Every once in a while we would make eye contact as he slung beers at my end of the bar. When I got up from my stool to graduate to the bathroom, he winked at me. Yup, he winked right at me.
Normally, winks from strangers are a kind of creepery I avoid, but the guy had the trifecta. I had a grandfather who would pass me pieces of candy before dinner with a wink. There’s a special place in my heart for a good winking, and I felt satisfied I had received special attention.
“I think I just got winked at,” I exclaimed with a pre-pubescent delight.
“You got what?” my friend, Ms. Pepper, was confused.
“I think the hot Irish bartender just winked at me. Do you think he winks at everyone?”
“He must be into you, because that outfit does not make you look like you have deep pockets,” she counseled and insulted. Sound advice, I had to wait for a second sign of reciprocated attraction before I made any aggressive plans to marry, and I put my jacket back on to aid my suffering ensemble.
At the end of the game we closed our tabs and collected outside the bar. The place was still packed inside. I resolved: one wink was all the attention Mister Handsome could give me.
As we waited for stragglers, my group started talking about him again. That’s the thing with a charming man, they leave a lasting impression. Just as my friends denigrated me for not striking up a conversation with Blue Eyes, speak of the devil, he walks outside to assess the area, and manages to look busy with the outdoor chalkboard displaying the specials. Our eyes locked. Another wink. Okay, now my knees were weak. I almost melted like the wicked witch. Oh what a world, what a world.
“He came out here just to wink at you,” Pepper encouraged.
“He didn’t do anything but move that sandwich board two inches. Literally picked it up and set it back down. Literally. He was looking for you. Go give him your number.”
Once under the spell of the Charming Trifecta a lady must make a bold move to prove she’s worthy. Fortunately for me, I was surrounded by enough clear thinking people, and had the consumed the right amount of liquid courage to make that bold move.
I, like any good soldier, am prepared for anything as long as I have my big purse. I tore a piece of paper from my notebook and with careful tact, legibly scrawled my number (the real one). Without allowing too much time for second thoughts, I marched into the bar and right up to Mister Handsome.
“I know you probably get this a lot, but… here’s my number,” I blurted out trying to disguise my fear, certain I was venturing out of my league. I’m only a seven at the beginning of the night, sober. I was probably down to a five at that point after a full day of work, a few brews and a cheap outfit. I held out the wishful piece of paper. The handsome ginger smiled and took my number.
The bar erupted into a celebration as the game ended. I forget who won, I was memorized by blue eyes.
“ACTUALLY I DON’T GET THIS A LOT,” he shouted above the loud bar, “I’M GLAD YOU CAME UP TO ME, I THOUGHT I MISSED YOU.”
Never has not hearing a man made me so tongue-tied. My nerves were eased as the trifecta took hold of me. The intoxication of his small talk sent me over the edge and into a poppy field. Although, not much was actually communicated because we couldn’t hear each other.
“WHAT NIGHTS DO YOU WORK SO I CAN STALK YOU IF YOU DON’T CALL?” I must have been mad to admit I would be all private investigator if he came to his senses.
“OH I’M GOING TO CALL YOU… BUT IF YOU WANT TO STALK ME ANYWAY, TUESDAY, WEDNESDAY, THURSDAY, AND SUNDAY.”
I just smiled, engraving his schedule in my brain; positive he wasn’t going to call.
“BUT I AM GOING TO CALL. I’LL CALL YOU FRIDAY.” With that he winked at me, a now signature move. I smiled broadly, turned on my heel and tried to play it cool.
It took all my power not to shout with delight as I skipped out the door in celebration, which was a total fail at coolness. I actually skipped, like a 3rd grader at recess after trading a chunky peach yogurt for a chocolate snack pack. I may have even thrown my hands up in triumph.
I didn’t care if he saw me frolicking. I just thought, “if nothing else, it was truly explosive to make the acquaintance of the striking ginger-haired Irishmen with the trifecta of a charming man.” Maybe unnecessary celebration. Whatever. It was a bold move for me.
And he’s still winking at me, four years later.
June 4, 2014 § Leave a comment
Don’t hate CrossFit, hate the CrossFitter– or something like that. I know I’m late to the volcanic eruption Erin Simmons initiated. If you didn’t read her opinion article about why CrossFit isn’t for her HERE it is. Erin Simmons is a former track athlete, fitness enthusiast, and aspiring fitness model with a bangin’ bod. She doesn’t need CrossFit, whatever she is doing is working just fine for her.
At first glance, her article complemented my beliefs about CrossFit culture: unsafe workouts, rushed training program, and cultish. A Physical Therapist friend of mine lead me to Erin’s article, and like many that came before hers, I agreed. As a Pilates instructor, I see people drag their feet into classes because their PT told them Reformer Pilates was the next step to recovery. The next step to getting them back to putting their balls to the walls doing the very thing that injured them in the first place. Going along with the article, I lamented: people getting injured in CrossFit will keep me and my PT friend in good work for a long time coming. This was a gross generalization on my part. Like an adorable Pitbull you cannot ignore, the rebuttal came from the CrossFit side.
Same FB thread, same circle of HS friends, an Army guy based in Europe for the past few years defended his favored fitness regimen. The community he gained through CrossFit in a foreign land should not be condemned. Always the athletic type, CrossFit had allowed him to push past barriers in his own fitness. He took accountability off the coaches, trainers, and organizations and put it back on the user. Pretty much, you can get injured doing ANYTHING. And that’s the truth, Ruth.
Yes, there are bad coaches in the “box” or bad eggs in the basket or whatever bad apple analogy you want to go with. Consider, when you “take up” running on a whim, you don’t have a certified someone coaching your every step. Or you’re doing the squat challenge you got off Pintrest, you don’t have a butt official. If you listen to your body, if you have good body awareness, and are knowledgeable of proper form, you will be just fine with little to no guidance from peers or the internet. Unfortunately, some people are just not born with body awareness. Believe me, if you have not been blessed with natural control, balance, and rhythm all is not lost, but seeking help isn’t a bad thing. CrossFit might not be something you should rush into, unless you find attentive coaches. In this case, avoid all bad apples.
In my limited experience at a “box” there was little to no classic instruction of any kind. The workout is written on the board and everyone does it. It’s like a high school gym class if the students actually gave a shit. The exercises are reminiscent of Olympic training. It’s like an Olympic Phys Ed class. Now, call me crazy, should someone with poor body awareness be lifting anything besides their baby without proper instruction or supervision? Should someone who has never worked out in their lives be working out like an Olympian? Probably not, which is why most “boxes” won’t let you lift in your first session. That doesn’t stop them from throwing you a 25lb weight and telling you to relay sprint across and eroded concrete lot. Even the most athletic body can trip up with the adrenaline of friendly competition and attempting a new feat.
I thought I was going to break my neck. I can do a triple pirouette and balance on five toes with my leg in the air, but navigating potholes in a sprint with 25lb extra junk… feel free to call me a pussy. With every exercise, I kept looking around the room, searching for some instruction. Was I doing this wrong? Was I lifting with my back by mistake? Will I be able to walk the next day? Is there a trick I’m not getting that will take it out of my hip flexors/shoulders/low back?
Okay, CrossFitters, de-ruffle your feathers, please. Admittedly, I have felt the same way in a Pilates class, proving further that it’s not all on CrossFit. The instructor was pushing the class so hard and so fast that I was muscling through my reps instead of going at my own speed to maintain form. After an hour of being yelled at, I was almost in tears walking out the door. The next day I felt soreness in all the wrong places. These are two examples of the dangers of No Coaching and Bad Coaching.
Some companies will throw just about anyone in the ring to teach/coach/instruct. I landed my first fitness job when I was 20. I was originally hired to teach a Hip Hop Cardio Class. As a white girl and classical dancer, the class didn’t go so well, so they asked me to try kickboxing instead. So I rented a Tae Bo video and copied the workout. Ballerina gone bad ass. Literally, that was my instructor training. I have the former Blockbuster Video to thank for that. Oh and I also had teaching 3 year olds on my resume too. With the kickboxing class going well, my employers asked me to do an Ab Lab, which was perfect because I really loved to work on my own. When the Ab Lab gained popularity, I was asked to incorporate light weights. I’m not proud to say that I did it because I wanted to keep my job, but they shouldn’t have allowed me to teach and lifting. I wasn’t qualified. You can go though a 4 hour training cert online and be accredited, so I’d technically say I had more experience teaching, but it still made me feel uneasy.
Now, after years of teaching and proper Pilates Certifications and others, I’m confinement in my ability to properly train even the most feeble bodied. If I don’t know how to train or modify for an injury, I will always do my homework to get it right. I encourage my clients to listen to their bodies, and pay attention to which muscles are working. I cannot tell you how many times a day I say, “relax your shoulders,” even to the most athletically blessed people. It really needs to be a bumper sticker.
Clearly, you can get a hard body, or kickstart your regimen after a “hiatus” without coaching, but it never hurts to have someone in your ear telling you to pull your abs in and track your knees. To be honest, if you love CrossFit, I don’t want to see you in my Pilates class. You are not going to be happy there. I want you to stay doing what you love well into your 90s. Can you gain body awareness and athleticism from cross training with Pilates? Yes, it can benefit performance in any sport, but I’m not here on a Pilates agenda.
You owe it to your body’s future be accountable for your needs. Me, I enjoy the constant meticulous instruction of yoga, Pilates, kickboxing, HIIT and other group classes, but that doesn’t mean that I shouldn’t incorporate heavier weights (for future bone density) and more cardio (for heart health). If you enjoy the CrossFit atmosphere, do your thing. P90x, barre classes, marathon running, power lifting can all illicit injuries unless you are honest with yourself, your trainers, and your peers. No one will ever push you beyond your threshold into injury. No one wants to see injuries. If you aren’t sure, you should always ask. If you think you are doing it wrong, ask. If there is no one to ask, find a different exercise to do in the meantime and then go ask someone.
Don’t be shy with your health. The CrossFitters aren’t shy about their health, Erin Simmons isn’t shy about her health, and I’m not shy about mine. Do what works for you, but do it right, do it safe, and don’t be shy if you don’t think it’s right for you. It’s a big wide world of fitness and activity, go out there and get some good endorphins, look good naked, and have a blast every time you do it.
****On a side note, I was a little turned off by the heated, malice laced replies that popped up from the CrossFit community like THIS ONE and THIS OTHER ONE. It’s fantastic people are passionate about fitness in our food obsessed culture, however, I didn’t think Erin’s letter was as particularly bashing as her headline. She had a bad experience at CrossFit and it wasn’t for her. I also had a bad experience at CrossFit and it’s not for me either, but I would have liked to see CrossFitters exercise more grace under fire. We get it, injury can happen anywhere doing anything. Bottom line: Whatever you are doing, do it properly and encourage the same of the others around you. I wished that would have hit that harder instead of heated defense.
****Always welcome to take Pilates at HIP Studio in Hermosa Beach, CA. Every trainer will give you an intense workout, with impeccable instruction. I’ve searched far and wide to find a good home. If the CrossFitters are going to promote their “boxes” I’ve got no shame in promoting the studio I love.