In efforts to assimilate among the legions of the fit and ripped here, I have been soaking through PT gear twice a day for nearly a month. For some reason, I don't feel as good (or look as good) as I thought that I should at this point in the venture. Part of this routine includes a daily class led by a likely unqualified, but unimaginably confident modern day Hercules-Bruce Jenner hybrid. The class is named "crossfit" as it aims to capitalize on "muscle confusion"- the act of performing a variety of different exercises which allow specific muscle groups rest, while the demand on the cardiovascular system persists - to lead to aerobic fitness and anabolism, simultaneously. Most of the time, there is also a good deal of "Michael confusion," but I get along, despite my abhorrence of doing maneuvers with names like, "squat," "clean-and-jerk," and, "dead lift." After the first couple of weeks, I was even starting to walk normal again.
This holiday from orthopaedic purgatory expired a few days ago, however, at the hands of the aforementioned maneuvers. The coup de grace was the aforementioned, and aptly named, "dead lift." Now you may say that I had this coming, but my grace period from my last old-guy injury had given me a sense of security and confidence. I looked in the mirror, and started to see just another, albeit balder and chubbier, 25 year old stud. Indeed, when H.B.Jenner decided our workout would be low repetition with "maximum weight" in the dead lift, I could have ran away, or coolly slipped out the back door. But I stayed, and endured, possibly deserved, the guitar string snaps which were the cacophony of ripping muscle fibers in my lower back, followed by spasm, and what has been 3 days of ibuprofen, ice, stretching and cursing.
Not as bad as it could have been. Now, I am on the mend. Doing fine.
I will remember this, and act my age, for at least... ...a few months.
Care to share (confess) your last auto-overestimation?