Did you know it was possible to raise a 26kg kettle bell to chest height using only the momentum generated by your bum muscles? No, neither did I. Even with an arse the size of mine it didn’t occur to me that that might be a possibility.
One of the exercises in my morning class requires me to propel my body upwards from a squat position whilst holding a kettle bell which somehow needs to end up at chest height, before dropping back into a squat, and repeat. Call me old fashioned but I had assumed that my arms might need to be involved in the equation somehow. It seems I’d misunderstood the brief, and worse than that, given God of Pain the impression that I was doing it right so he upped the ante in this morning’s session with a heavier weight based on the fact that my arse was doing such an awesome job.
It became apparent very quickly that I had in fact not got the hang of it at all, as the burning sensation in my arm took hold…shit the bed it really hurt. My arm went from grumbling a bit to shrieking like a banshee as I tried to pull 26kg up my body, after my arse (having completely missed the point of the exercise) handed responsibility for the kettle bell over to my arms somewhere around my midriff.
I kept going for a bit because saying I quit doesn’t come easily to me, you know? Fortunately, common sense won out over being a hero although not until I was hurting off the scale. Once we established that I’d been trying to lift the weight with my arms not my arse it became clear why it’d all gone to pot, and to my frustration I had to wimp out of most of the other kettle bell exercises. I mean seriously, I wanted to weep like a proper big girl’s blouse.
Even the chopped banana on the end of my spoon felt too heavy when I came home and ate breakfast afterwards you know? So I’m dosed up with anti-inflammatories, and my hatred of kettle bells is now a thing.
I don’t know why I was so upset. Well actually that’s not strictly true, I can probably hazard a guess…I don’t like getting things wrong, and in that drama queen moment I felt like I’d ruined everything by doing it wrong and getting injured.
It reminded me of those dark dark days in the past where if I made a bad food choice and went off the rails a bit with my eating I chucked the towel in, with the Asshole’s voice ringing in my ears…what’s the point, you’ve blown it now, give it up and eat some pie. As I jogged on the spot towards the end of the session instead of throwing kettle bells around, with my arm throbbing like a bastard he gave it his very best shot…I told you you couldn’t do it. This exercise malarkey was always going to be too much for a fat old woman. You should stop coming here and just concentrate on dieting instead…
Thankfully me and the God of Pain have a plan…I’ll work with much lower weights and perfect my technique over the next couple of weeks until the hurting settles down. No drama, no quitting.
Fancy me getting a sports injury…there’s a bunch of words I never thought I’d utter. It’s all part of the adventure, right?
