It is about that time of the year, when I can sweat by just looking at the weights. 80 degrees and up. I don’t even have to lift a 1 lb plate for my body to start leaking liquid awesome. Ugh. It’s hot. I’m not embarrassed about it anymore like I used to be. The first time the issue was addressed, my coach yelled at me:
“WHY ARE YOU SWEATING?! We haven’t even done anything.”
And he was right. I literally had grabbed my measly bar and was just standing there, waiting to go through the movements of the strength. #NewbieAtTheBox. My simple response was to not say anything. Maybe it was because I was carrying around a shit ton of extra body weight. Maybe it was because I was ridiculously out of shape. Maybe it was because all eyes were on me, with my pansy weight, and you just yelled at me.
I use to make a lot of jokes about taking my workout in to the restroom – the only part of our box that has air conditioning. People tend to laugh when I make the joke, but I’m not kidding. Get a rower in there and I’m all set. Which sounds better – black mat floor or cold hard concrete? Concrete for the win. So much cooler.
I have since figured out that my sweaty issues have nothing to do with any of this. I, apparently, just like to sweat. A lot. Cold, warm, hot, super hot, surface of the sun – it doesn’t matter. It just starts pouring. I’m also not ashamed of it anymore. It’s a sign of the work that I put in. I don’t cheat. I don’t cut corners. I go and do the work. #ScaledAF sometimes, but I do the work. The workout may have ended 20 minutes ago and I still may be sitting on the bench sweating, but I really don’t care.
The sweaty brow. The boob sweat. The line on my back slowly creepin’ down to my pants. It is all a sign of where I’ve been and where I am going. It’s the disgusting reminder that I’m better right now than what I was 20 minutes ago. I made it through something that – let’s be honest, I read and then laughed at – seemed impossible. I am killing it. Every. Single. Day.