We're standing in our living room against a wall, trying to keep our knees from shaking as the man on the television shouts what is supposed to be positive reinforcement. I don't get how we're supposed to relate to these people. The blonde gymnast looks like a Russian martial arts expert with concave abs and biceps that could be used to club people to death. The host, wearing his official P90X branded tank top, has Don Draper hair and a smile orthodontists fantasize about at night. Meanwhile, Josh and I are red in the face, panting like smokers that got ambitious and tried to sprint 100 meters. With twenty seconds left on the last wall sit, we collapse on our oatmeal colored carpet, legs burning and all misconceptions about how "in shape" we are quickly melting away.
We attempted our first session of P90X on Sunday evening. And it wasn’t until the host told us to head over to the pull-up bar that I suddenly realized that I was in a fitness test flashback. There I am, eight years old, wearing my purple floral leggings and matching top, waiting in line like I’m ready to be executed.
Not all parts of the Greenleaf Elementary School fitness test are created equal in my eyes. The walk across the balance beam and “sit and reach” components of that day are a cakewalk in my eyes. I have the grace and poise of a drunken ballerina: it’s not pretty, but I manage to stay upright and flexible with ease. I can do 75 sit-ups in a minute with my best friend Lindsey holding my feet while our teacher yells at us to keep our butts on the mat. And despite my slight fear of heights and less than stellar coordination, I manage to hoist myself up and down the cargo net with only a few kids laughing when I look down and my humungous pink glasses slip off my nose and tumble to the floor.
But now I’m in line for my least favorite event. I always save this for last, letting other kids budge in line in hopes that the bell will ring before I reach the front of the queue. My palms are already sweating as I watch the boy in front of me try out for American Gladiators and complete 7 pull-ups before falling to the ground. He is cooler to us than Jean Claude Van Damme, eyeing the rest of our group up and down like the token jock in poorly written teen comedies.
It’s my turn and with a deep breath, a quick prayer to God for some subhuman strength I know doesn’t exist in my weak little arms, I make my way to the pull up bar. Stepping onto the plastic chair, my teacher gives me a wink and a nod, “Whenever you’re ready Ashley.” This is my moment. This time will be different. I can feel the muscles in my arms flex. My confidence soars and a smile creeps across my face. Placing my hands firmly on the metal rail, I look down at my purple sparkle shoelaces and know that I’m ready.
Hoisting myself off the chair, I feel elated. I’m bringing my chin towards the bar, reaching out like Adam to God in that super awesome painting in the Sistine Chapel. My eyes are wide. A laugh escapes my chest as I realize I’m going to make it.
“One, “ I hear my teacher whisper. “Keep it up.”
And with that voice of confidence, my arms drop like anchors. I’m hanging on for dear life, my Keds kicking lightly like somehow I can swim up to the bar again. My elbows begin to shake and I fall onto the mat below.
Yep. That’s my lifetime record. One unassisted pull-up. Go me.
According to the official training guide for Tough Mudder, contestants should be able to do 6 pull-ups easily before race day. So as we sit on our living room floor, cursing the inventor of P90X, I realize we have a long way to go. But the good news: we have time and despite the burning in my legs, a positive attitude that I can seriously do this. Sparkly purple shoelaces or not, I’m going to do this.
So we clean ourselves up, drink plenty of water, and look forward to our next trial run workout on Thursday.
