So I had a Powerlifting meet. I did NOT make the 72kg weight class, but it's cool. I weighed in at 77.1kg the morning of the meet (that's 169.62# for you real Americans), which put me in the 84kg weight class. I understand now the appeal of the heavyweight. I could've just stood on the scale eating a motherfucking hoagie and it wouldn't have made a lick of difference.
I mean, blah blah Wilks score, but whatever.
The singlet made it's public debut.
I know. Super hawt. Try to control yourself.
I watched an old dude squat over 800#, which was not at all intimidating, and then some of my own teammates squat and bench some scary numbers. So, yeah, pretty terrified at the outset.
Really. Terrified. Knot in my belly, sweaty palms terrified. My palms don't sweat, people. I've used chalk exactly once in my life and that was in the fucking tropics, okay? Palms sweating terrified. This was made worse by the fact that we kept getting delayed. First an hour, then two. The above photo was taken in the bathroom on my 239th trip in there before my flight started squatting three hours late.
Three. Hours. Late. By then my nerves had gone from HOLYSHITIWANTTOGOHOMETHISWASABADIDEAWHYAMIHERESOMEBODYHELP
to
JESUSFUCKINGCHRISTAREWEGOINGTOLIFTORWHATIJUSTWANTTHISTOBEOVER
to
you know what, fuck it.
It was at "You know what? Fuck it." That I approached the first lift.
And I got it.
One of the oddest things for me was the sheer number of people around you when you lift. I'm not used to lifting with spotters (except at Power Club), as I normally lift alone in a power rack with safeties. Having someone pretty much breathing down your neck while you squat is a strange sensation. Especially for someone like me who basically hates human contact.
I hit the first squat, got red lighted on the second, reattempted and got the third. I was so concerned about the commands and not fucking up that I swear I blacked out on the actual squat. I don't remember it at all. Have I ever mentioned what a shitty squatter I am? Because I am. I was really worried about bombing out, because it was a real possibility. Having this out of the way was a huge relief.
If squatting is weird, benching is weirder. Three commands to remember and a bunch of positional shit you have to be aware of. Also you kind of have to look up some guy's shorts while he hands off, and there are a lot of really unattractive angles to be filmed from. Like this one.
Again, try to control yourself.
Another example of being so concerned with the commands that I forgot barbells are heavy. I had three lifts with three white lights. Kinda wish I'd gone heavier on the third, to be honest, but there's always the next meet, and it felt good to see those white lights in the corner.
The deadlift was fun. I have noted in the past that deadlifting makes me piss myself. I actually wore reinforced granny panties to avoid the urine-soaked singlet of it all. I had three deadlifts. NO PEEING. For real. NOT A DROP. I mean, WTF bladder? Other women peed on the platform, and no shame or shade from me...but for some reason I had a bladder of goddamn steel that day. PR'd my DL, (which I actually DO remember) easy as fuck, and NOT A DROP OF URINE.
Look, Ma, NO PEE
Deadlifted in my basement this past Tuesday? Pissed all over the place. My body is fucking with me.
My Wilks score put me pretty firmly in the "intermediate" strata for a powerlifter, and I'm completely fine with that. I have a starting place and I know what to work on, and while stage fright will always be a problem it's at least now a demon I've met. I wrestle with my demons all the time, this one can get in line.
Our teams (Senior and Rookie) took first place, and there was a lot of hardware worn home by my teammates, including the crazy bitch who talked me into this bullshit to begin with. She also provided me with the above videos, so thanks, Scully. I think. Here we are looking hungry.
Because that was a long fucking day, yo. Also? ALL GIRL TEAM, BITCHES.
Once we got started it was actually a lot of fun. Everyone was super friendly, we cheered for each other and there was a lot of high fiveing and hugging and tired-and-hungry manic glee. I recognized a few Strongman competitors (and they recognized me) and that was cool. We also had a ton of coaching support as we warmed up and took the platform, and that meant a lot.
I'm glad I gave this a try. I am so much stronger now than I was 6 months ago, and watching all the incredible athletes I get to train with every week (especially my fellow Masters lifters) has really lit a fire in me to continue. I want to deadlift 150kg, too, goddammit, and there's a 100kg squat in this 40 year old ass...I know there is.
After the meet we got some pizza and fucking destroyed that shit. It was delicious, and the fact that it put me over 78kg the next day? Totally worth it.
So now I'm back to trying to cut my weight down a bit. Mostly this is because I get itchy when my weight creeps up for no appreciable reason. It's not the number so much as the increase. I don't want to gain 3 pounds a year and wake up at age fifty, 200# and WTF. When I start to creep up to that 170 mark I start looking for answers. Lately I've been counting macros.
I fucking hate counting macros. Especially with My Fitness Pal. Are you familiar with My Fitness Pal? More like "The Fitspo Bitch I Hate Follow On Instagram". I fucking hate MFP. First of all, it tries to tell me that I should be eating 1200 calories a day for weight loss and you can go fuck yourself with that number. Yeah, I'd be thin on 1200 calories a day because I'd be fucking dead.
I am a big woman. I require more fuel than your average lawn mower, Pal. I also despise that it seems to be geared towards eating shit with bar codes. The only way to be absolutely sure you have the right thing is with a barcode. I find that infuriating. 752 entries for "egg", but if I scan a bag of cookies my Pal is johnny on it. Just like that sabotaging Fitspo Bitch. That bitch wants you to get fat.
My life. So big. Towering over people, stepping
on cars. It's awkward.
And every fucking day, when you log your numbers, your Pal tells you exactly how you fucked up (NO, PAL, my goal is not to be UNDER 160g of carbs a day. It's a TARGET, okay?) and "if every day was like today" how much you'd weigh in 5 weeks. THANKS FOR THE FAT SHAMING, PAL.
So to simplify things, I basically eat the same boring ass shit every single day. Up until now it hasn't been paying off much, but the last few days I seem to have turned a corner.
Boring ass shit.
More boring ass shit. Not pictured, the guac for good fats.
Shitty protein cake with FF Redi-whip.
After creeping steadily upwards for weeks in spite of active cutting, I suddenly dropped to 75kg without warning or explanation. I saw abs. They were there until breakfast.
HI ABS, BYE ABS
So now that the upward creep has stopped, I'm just going to grind and eat boring ass shit and see where that gets me. Maybe I'll be a 72kg lifter at my next meet. Maybe I'll be an 84+. It's anyone's guess really. Maybe I'll say "fuck it" and eat until I graft into the couch. I am trying to get to a 600# total. Maybe it'll be bodyweight instead of squat/bench/dead.
I mean, there's only so much ground turkey a person can take before they lose their shit completely.
Oh, I did CrossFit this week for the first time in months. Even did a WOD today. I can honestly say I don't miss it. I like my hands intact and my shins unsplit. Dropping in on cherry picked workouts is more my speed. This year will be the first in 5 years that I haven't signed up for the Open. At first it felt strange, but I just don't want to. The bloom is off the rose. Have fun, CF friends, I'll cheer from the sidelines and revel in the unrippedness of my palms.
Now if you'll excuse me, it's time to eat another box of boring ass shit.
No comments:
Post a Comment