My husband is currently sitting in an ice bath, and I’m honestly surprised there are no divorce papers on the kitchen counter. I forced him to take a CrossFit class with me and—if I’m being honest—it was kind of the worst.
Nate and I have talked some trash about CrossFit in the past, even though, if I’m being totally honest with myself, we have no reason whatsoever to do that because I’ve never actually taken a class. We’ve called it cult-y and dismissed the Paleo diet at the same time. I admit that it’s unfair, but if I were to imagine hell, it would be swinging kettlebells at an un-air-conditioned CrossFit gym in our hometown of New Orleans during the dog days of August. We’re runners, not thrusters, and that kind of exertion is not what I’m looking for when I lace up my sneaks.
But when I looked at CrossFit as a relationship challenge rather than a fitness challenge, it became surprisingly appealing.
I guess there’s a part of me that finds the whole CrossFit phenomenon intriguing, even if it’s the polar opposite of what I like to do for exercise. Or maybe because it’s the polar opposite of what I like to do for exercise. Either way, I knew I was never going to make it to a class on my own—honestly, I would be too scared. But if I could get someone to come with me, I thought, I might muster the motivation to check it out and put my naysaying to the test. That’s when it occurred to me that I could rope in my husband and turn it into a social experiment/relationship test. Suddenly, things got interesting. Since we’re always trying to experience new challenges together to grow as a couple, I decided to take the “We’re just as badass as any CrossFit couple” approach and asked him to come with me. Since he loves me, he (unenthusiastically) agreed. Here’s what happened. Spoiler: It was a veritable nightmare, but I’m kind of glad we did it.
Prior to the class, I text my bestie for a little encouragement:
Fact: It’s more like 10 workouts in one, as I was about to learn the very, very hard way.
Upon arrival, a perky employee sporting a fitspiration tank that read, “I hate running,” greets us. We fill out our computer-generated don’t-sue-us waivers and scramble to learn the lingo.
CrossFitters not only have a signature style of dress (think: knee-socks, short shorts and specialized sneakers), but a dedicated style of fitness vocab. Each gym is called a box (as in, hot box) and the workout of the day is known as a WOD. There’s also AMRAP (as many reps as possible), we learned, and movements like the Snatch, Clean and Jerk, and Wallball. OK, those I’m actually kind of into, I thought, because I’m actually a 14-year-old boy.
But it was time to get my mind out of the gutter and get our WOD on.
OK, I knew CrossFit was going to be hard. But holy heck, this is on another level. Also, I think my husband hates me.
Within 5 minutes, we’re drenched in sweat and my husband has threatened to walk into the oncoming traffic that faces the gym on the nearby highway. We just completed the warm-up and he’s pissed at me. This date is going well.
From there, we are gifted a barbell, and the class moves on to a complicated jungle gym-looking torture system that looks fit for a prison yard. My arms are shaking sans a single added pound, but the instructor encourages me to add more weight. Defeated, I tuck my tail between my non-muscular thighs and waddle over to the equipment shed to gather more heft.
Our job is to do eight sets of squats with overhead lifts followed by box jumps with kettle bells, one minute per exercise. My husband and I are placed face-to-face, which BTW, isnot romantic, during the jumping portion, marking the perfect opportunity for whispering obscenities under our breath while I work through the routine quicker than a competitive hot dog eater.
Encouragement is a big part of the WOD, but when I hear a cheerful and well-meaning, “Killer job!” or “Stand up straight, Anne,” my combination of anger and exhaustion only allows me to omit a bloated grunt. You’d think that Nate and I would be encouraging each other, but instead we’re just commiserating and probably making it harder for each other, which in retrospect seems like not the point of doing this together. I’m nauseous. He’s dizzy. My back is killing me. The only thing we can sync up on is mulling over a snack from the vending machine. We’re probably missing a real learning moment here, but I’m too bleary-eyed to see that.
The final 15 minutes of class are devoted to a circuit of jump rope, burpees, and sit-ups. I realize that I’ve forgotten deodorant but I’ve also stopped caring about anything. We do three rounds of this cruel joke of a cool down on the blazing hot Astroturf-style surface and when I finally complete it with only a small amount of cheating, there are large bits of ground debris on my face and in my butt crack. Could Nate possibly find me attractive? I honestly can’t think of a better judge for how much he truly loves me for me.
Our first (and probably last) couple’s CrossFit experience comes to a close, and we’re certainly not converts. But at least we’re not converts together.
The CrossFit bug bites a lot of folks after their first class. I am not one of those people. And neither is my husband. And that’s OK. I can certainly understand the physical and social benefits of this program (or bro-gram, as some say), and it’s great how pumped up the members get for each other. Plus, for my husband and me, it’s important to get out of our fitness comfort zone and try something new for both the health and relationship benefits. Suffering together was indeed a true bonding moment—and he refrained from blaming me for signing him up for the torture, which I think is a clear indication that he’s the better half of our relationship. I didn’t puke and my marriage is still in tact, SO I’m counting this as an overall success.
We probably won’t be hitting up any boxes again in the foreseeable future, but that’s not just because the workout was so hard. Pushing ourselves at CrossFit made us appreciate that we get the same in-it-together feeling when we run a half-marathon or go out on our morning runs together. We didn’t need to put ourselves through physical and relationship paces to prove anything. Not to get all over the rainbow about it, but we’ve been pushing, challenging, and supporting each other all along. So while it’s good that we gave it a shot (and we probably deserved a little ass-kicking for our past smack talk), we have no qualms about sticking with what works. In the meantime, my vows for sickness and in health will no longer include deadlifts.
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