FB. The Porsche of my mid-life crisis.

What do kegs, Facebook, and a bruised nose all have in common? No. No. Not passing out after a full evening of boozing and trolling FB.

ACF Strongman classes!

After last night’s WOD, while being personally hazed into completing 130 Wall Balls at 14lbs. (afterwhich I was seeing stars and heard a voice telling me to head towards the light) the next good idea presented itself; to stay an extra hour and take the Strongman class. The class was outside, it was warm, the sun was out. After all, who doesn’t need to brush up on their keg lifts?

Granted, I worked with the beginner keg. 30lbs. This was good enough for me. Just getting it up to the press position is awkward, not to mention, awkward. Who lifts a keg up into their lap, and then onto their shoulder, then chest, then up over head. Well, CF’ers do. Apparently.

Clearly I’m out of practice as I forgot I was lifting a KEG, and let it come down too quickly onto my nose. To which my WOD partners asked, ‘What’s going on over there Jan Brady? Are you okay?’

I saw a couple more stars, this time B-List only and shook it off. No black and blues this morning, just sore.

The thing is, Strongman is addicting. You stand around as a group and watch the coaches as they demonstrate the moves and think, am I really about to do that? That stone looks so big, that keg looks so heavy. The whole process is almost surreal, until you bend down and pick up the object in front of you. And start grappling with it, trying to actually pick it up, maneuver it, fix your grip and somehow position it on your body so you can actually carry it. Move it. Like you’re out in the woods trying to chop down trees and move boulders in an effort to build your cabin before the first snow comes. Like I said, surreal. And tres addicting.

The FB piece comes into play usually during the 24 hours after performing a Jan Brady. If you know me, you know I do not like FB. At all. They own every last piece of information you put up there. All the photos and text, and fleeting thoughts, and movements and clicks. They could take that family reunion photo of you and your 90 year old Pop-Pop and sell it to Coke-a-cola and the next thing you know; you and your Pop-Pop are waving back at you from the side of a bus driving by during your vacation to Hong Kong. And there’s not a damn thing you can do about it. FB owns you. And all your personal crap you upload and post into the FB vortex on a minute by minute basis. Just sayin’.

Which is why the fact that I’m on there so much recently can only now, after much thought, be attributed to some sort of mid-life crisis. I just don’t give a sh*t. At least not as much as I did before. At least not about the same stuff as before. My list of things I do actually care about is dwindling, being honed down to a very short select, refined grouping. And FB just didn’t make the cut. I just don’t care about FB like I did. More specifically, I don’t care about not caring about FB like I once used to. Rather, I’m having too much fun connecting with my fellow CF’ers about our shared insanity to care much about the venue. It’s as if I’m having a mid-life crisis, and Facebook is my Porsche. Better yet, FB is my seedy affair. I’m okay with that. Let’s see how long it lasts.

On to more positive things. Like pressing kegs over head and strategizing for the next workout whereby the stars come out in the triple wide.

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