The Cruelty of CrossFit

I should’ve known better than to listen to Amelia. Because of her my legs no longer work. And I need them to work. Legs are pretty important in the overall scheme of life. Without them I can’t walk and I have nothing to cross. Okay, technically, I still have my legs, but they’re about as useful as a middle aged appendix. And it’s all Amelia’s fault. I would kick her, but since the whole CrossFit debacle of ’11, (two whole days ago) I can’t.

“Who’s Amelia and what’s CrossFit?” my participatory readers ask. (the rest of you have stopped reading by now). Amelia is my self-appointed personal trainer who, the other morning, stalked me out of bed and made me go to a Spanish Inquisition-style torture session called, you guessed it…CrossFit. How I am still alive is purely an act of God, good survival genes and my GNC women’s multi-vitamin.

Just so you don’t get the wrong idea, CrossFit is an excellent workout. It’s all the rage here in Dublin among the “already fit” crowd, marathon runners, iron men, Hercules, the Incredible Hulk, Xena-Princess Warrior and Captain America. I also have a whole band of non-super hero friends who swear by it. The 24-year old instructor, Aaron, has a cheerful military-style of making you “want” to do things that sane people would laugh at…like jumping up onto a 20 inch box 60 times in a row, run long distances carrying a weight the size of a dead boar hog and repeatedly lifting a 50 pound kettle ball above our heads, while holding our breath, sucking in our abs and singing “Baby Got Back.” It’s all great stuff if you like challenges and consider a good workout something more than hanging laundry on the bedroom treadmill once a day. Unfortunately I don’t. I swear as I limped into bed post-workout, I could hear my treadmill snicker.

“How do you feel? Are your legs okay? You’ll feel great after your next class,” chirped Amelia yesterday. Maybe next time you can run six miles with me when class is over. That’s what I usually do and it’s so refreshing. Just stick with me and I’ll have you in shape in no time.”

I really do like Amelia. You can’t not like her. Or at least it’s highly improbably….like progress under Obama. Even though I think Amelia’s great, at that moment I wanted to spit my gum into her hair, but somehow that takes a little energy and slight muscle use. My energy and muscle meters were both on empty. So I said “yeah, cool.” And then collapsed.

I do feel a tiny bit better than I did yesterday. Maybe tomorrow I’ll be able to walk again…even spit my gum on Amelia when she shows up to pick me up for CrossFit.

The Fine Art of Embalming....and other food for thought

Although details and names have been changed, this really did happen...Honest.

“Now, when you’re working on a body, it’s vitally important to use a water-based embalming solution, rather than a chemical solution. The hydration keeps the skin looking more natural, less….well…less dead.”

I have to laugh at the way Jul, uh Jeremiah keeps using the term “you,” as if I’m his mortician’s apprentice, as if embalming dead bodies is something I do with the frequency of making dinner and weeding my garden.

There are certain conversations I know with certainty that I’ll have everyday: baseball scores and highlights with my son Andrew, philosophy and apologetics with my son Jack, and “Angela, what on earth are you doing with your time and company credit card,” with my boss. But honestly, a primer in the art of human body preservation was nowhere near today’s to-do list. In fact, all I did to initiate this half hour lecture was ask “so, how’s it been going.” I have to remember to ask Jeremiah that question only when I have time for a response that should come with college credits.

In case you’re wondering who Jeremiah is, he’s a barista at a local coffee shop. He’s the clean cut, quiet one, the only one who doesn’t sport the same My Chemical Romance t-shirt five days a week. Jeremiah doesn’t offer much in the way of conversation or reassurance that he’s not a serial killer…although he says he’s not. Yes, I asked. But honestly, I wonder how many serial killers, when posed that question would playfully smack their brow and say “wow, you’re good. Was it the blood under my fingernails?”

I didn’t learn about Jeremiah’s passion for human taxidermy right away. It was after about a year of ordering the same vanilla latte (well, not the same one exactly, If I had to go back and order the same one everyday, I think I’d have given up after a few times) But I digress….he was handing my change back to me and I asked “so, are you the manager here at Juice Bird?”

“No,” he assured a little too readily. “It’s just a job to pay the bills. My real passion is embalming.” He said it like I would surely be impressed to the point of asking for his autograph. But all I could muster was “you wear gloves, right?” Then I began to think of that day when my latte had a slight formaldehyde scent to it.

It’s not that I’m not interested in embalming. It’s just that there are many other hobbies I’d like to learn before bringing home my first roadkill to mannequinize; which leads to a question. Why aren’t more morticians also taxidermists? It seems like they sort of do the same thing, doesn’t it? Not that I’d want Uncle Elmer mounted above the fireplace, but it’d be nice to have the option.

I think I’ll go ask….Be right back.

“Hi Jul, uh Jeremiah, since you’re so passionate about embalming humans, why don’t you also work on animals? Seems like it’d diversify your business and provide marketable growth potential,” I say, clearly having watched too much CNBC lately.

“Work on animals? It’s not my art form. Would you ask a sculptor why he doesn’t paint? I think not. But you find it suitable to assume that I should embalm any old dead thing that I can dig up. I don’t really mean dig up…bad choice of words. You wouldn't ask your hair dresser if she'd groom your dog, would you? Would I work on animals.....honestly!”

“I get it. Okay. Thanks,” I say to Jeremiah, who is now perspiring and so rattled from our exchange that he spills the crème brulee latte he’s whipping up.

The other day Jeremiah told me that he‘d recently won an award for his work on recapitating a headless body so that the victim, whose head was once lying across a four lane highway, now reunited with his cranium, appeared to be sleeping.

“What if his head had rolled down into a ravine and you couldn’t retrieve it? Could you use another head and make it look natural? I ask, seriously curious.”

Jeremiah rolls his eyes, “I ain’t Jeffrey Dahmer. We’re not a body part storehouse.”

I didn’t know there were awards for embalming. How do you submit an entry? Or is it like the Pillsbury Bake-Off where contestants are shown to individual work stations topped with old newspapers, fresh cadavers and embalming gadgets?

Jeremiah says that’s exactly what it’s like. Participants get credit for entering the body through only one point, as opposed to three points (the things you learn). They’re also judged on whether or not fluid leaks from the body. “This one dude’s corpse was lying in a puddle of fluid and we were all like ‘amateur.’”

Well I’m convinced. Anyone who wins the Pillsbury Bake-Off of embalming is good enough to get my business. If I get hit by a bus anytime soon, just drop my body off at Juice Bird. Jeremiah will know what to do.

Scenes from a Living Room on a Monday Night

My husband sits across the living room from me, concentrating on his phone, as I stare intently at my laptop. I get a notification that he’s just played his turn at Words with Friends. 57 points, a triple word and triple letter score. He’s beating me again. I take my turn, My vocabulary and letter choices are never enough to win.

Back in the old days, before our smart phones and social networking games we used to talk to each other…using our mouths and voices. Now it’s just “brrrring” another notification that it’s my turn. We often don’t even look up at each other to say “nice move” or “how dare you.”

Maybe later, in the bedroom, if we’re in the mood, we’ll do some sexting. Funny how today's technology can bring those who are thousands of miles apart into the same room...and make those of us in the same room feel thousands of miles apart. Isn't it ironic. Yes, I think.

Yet Another Stupid Thing to Argue About

I’m sitting in the parking lot of Garry’s Grocery waiting on Frances. I wonder why Garry’s parents chose to put two R’s in his name. Perhaps they had an extra one left over from their other son Lary’s name. Frances is a caregiver who I’m going to introduce to Mr. and Mrs. Taylor. I’ll go back to the office while she stays, cleans their house and tends to any other needs that may arise.

I work for a senior caregiver agency. If nothing else, the job has convinced me that I no longer want to live to be 105. My neighbor Caroline and I decided to shoot each other simultaneously when we turn 80….hopefully before dementia and adult diapers are part of daily life. It hasn’t occurred to me until now that Caroline is about five years older than me. What now? My plot is foiled. (Note to self, must find someone my own age with whom to go out with a bang)

I told my boss Billy (two L’s) about mine and Caroline’s plan. He pondered it a moment and then asked “are you going to shoot on ‘one’ or ‘zero?” The count down! Yet another question I hadn’t thought of. Planning simultaneous suicide can be so logistically challenging.

“I thought you drove a blue Suzuki!” announces Frances, overzealously tapping on my window glass and startling me from my typing. “Close… it’s a Saturn,” I say.

“Well, Jessica back at the office told me you drove a Suzuki. She sure did. So I’ve been looking for a Suzuki.”

“It’s a Saturn,” I laugh sort of nervously, wondering why we’re still on this topic.

“Well, I’ve been looking for a Suzuki because that’s what I thought you drove,” she says slightly accusingly, as if I’ve secretly traded my Suzuki for a Saturn just to annoy her.

“Yep, uhm, I’ve never driven a Suzuki before. I’m sure they’re nice, but I don’t have one,” I respond, trying to bring closure to the matter and wondering if I’m going to have to explain to the Taylors that Frances and I are late because we were arguing about the make of my car.

“And all this time I’ve been looking for a Suzuki. People can be so incompetent,” Frances sighs, shaking her head as if this misunderstanding ranks in tragedy with the starving children in …..well, wherever they’re starving right now.

I’m starting to feel apologetic, like if I’d only visited the Suzuki dealership five years ago, this unfortunate circumstance might’ve been averted.

Frances seems like the type who blames natural disasters, climate change and shifting tectonic plates on unsuspecting family members.

“Alright then. We’ve wasted enough time. Might as well go on to the Taylors’ house in whatever that is you drive,” she declares.

Not willing to leave well enough alone, I stop abruptly and gawk ‘Wait a minute! Is that your Camry? I could’ve sworn on my life that you drove an Accord!”