What a Bear

Two weeks ago, I started a new routine with M. the Reasonable, one which includes "bear crawls" at my Wednesday workout. We run each routine of workouts for four weeks, then M. switches things up, so today was my third go at bear crawls...and I only got about four hours of sleep last night.

Let me just wander into the Land of Overshare for a moment and point out a few things:

1. I have my period this week, which brings with it hormone headaches, general fatigue, and a propensity to want to eat everything in sight.
2. It also means waking up drenched in sweat a few nights during the week because apparently, my hormones can't handle a quilt and two cuddly cats.
3. (Two cats who had kept me awake until 1:00 by being obnoxious.)
4. My ability to deal with stress goes down when I'm menstruating and my ability to cry on command is greatly improved.

In other words, my day didn't start off on the greatest foot. When I got up this morning, I was considering selling my cats to the lowest bidder, I had to put fresh, dry pajamas on, and my head was hurting. I took five Ibuprofen before I even had my morning tea.

So the prospect of bear crawls was, perhaps, a bit daunting.

The first time I did bear crawls, I struggled, but persevered. Last week, I powered through them with no drama, but a lot of sweat and heavy breathing. This week, I hoped I could just finish them without sobbing all over M.'s shirt at any point.

And here's the thing: I just did them.

It was the end of my hour with M., and I had done my dips and bench presses and a few other exercises. M. had heard all about my obnoxious furkids ("Hey, you want a couple of cats?!") and was very understanding of my slower movements and overall fatigue. I was sweating more than usual, breathing harder. And I powered through each set of bear crawls with a determination and drive that impressed not only my trainer, but my own hard-to-please self. I was breathing like I'd just run a few miles at record pace, and I had to pull myself off the floor by holding on to a spin bike for dear life.

I admitted to him that sometimes it's a sheer stubborn refusal to look like an idiot in front of him that drives me along, and to prove to him that I can do it, and therefore prove it to myself. M. just smiled at me. "Well, you did prove it to me."