Because I Can

Alligator crawls with push-ups. A bunch. Each time I survive a workout, I’m kinda pumped. Not as fast as most, but dang I can hang. 

I’ve decided to approach exercise like giving birth. Once I started to think about my workout in these terms, I began to make progress. I approach another burpee, another squat, an attempted pull up (mainly I hang, just hang from the bar) as if it is simply another contraction. Do I feel like I can't do another? Yep. Do I feel like I'm going to lose my lunch? Often, especially when I increase intensity and/or duration. Am I going to die? It sure feels like it sometimes, but no, I'm not gonna die. Last week I came home with carpet burn like thingies on my forearms from the mat, bad form. But I didn’t quit. 

When thoughts of quitting enter my mind, I cut them off, fast, shut 'em down. If I don't, sure enough, I'm tapping out. I've asked people the secret to running longer, further, and have never received an answer that worked for me. I knew the battle was/is in my mind, not my legs. Contractions—that I understand. If I started whining and crying during a contraction, I lost ground, it didn't do any good to cry and fuss. Survive through the next. And the next. For however long it takes. It won't last forever; it just feels like it will. 

So, six, eight or ten sets of tabata or ladders, I’m in. 

I do this because I can.