Sitting on my back porch this afternoon, with almost hot sunlight glaring in my eyes, I sunk my head between my knees… and bawled.
I had just screamed at my husband, son and daughter to leave me alone. Now I was not-so-quietly sobbing and throwing a quite fancy pity-party.
Crying is something I don’t like anyone in my life to see me do. And here I was, reduced to tears by a workout. Specifically: man makers.
This gem of an exercise combines 4 very difficult movements all into one: a dumbbell push up, dumbbell row on each side, squat clean and thruster.
I’m not sure why I chose this of all of the workouts to do this week. It was the hardest for me by far. And I chose 20# dumbbells — 5 pounds under the elite weight.
By the time of my meltdown, I had already started over once. I had gotten to 5 when I heard the baby screaming inside. Andy was taking care of her, but frustration with the man makers and the frequency of a scream that moms cannot ignore made me stop to go inside.
I started over. This time I was at 15 when Andy and the kids came outside to cheer me on. And that’s when I lost it.
Now here I was, faced with choices. Continue on like I had never stopped? Give up entirely and do a different workout? Or start over again?
I finally pulled myself together. I was so tempted to quit. To go get my 15# dumbbells. To go on, starting at 16.
I moved my towel, water bottle, stopwatch and dumbbells to another part of the yard, out of the sun. I looked at the clock. And I hit reset. I made my decision.
I counted down this time instead of up. Every 5 man makers, I stopped to gasp for breath. I tried not to focus on how much I hated what I was doing. I just wanted it to be over.
40 man makers for time
When it was over, I didn’t feel elation. Discouragement. And I was ashamed by my breakdown.
I felt weak. Like I had been beaten. I had finished, but it felt like a hollow victory.
There’s a reason they’re called man makers.