During the other daylight hours, we resemble the rest of our flock. We start our day showered and moisturized. We smooth our hair and chapstick our lips. We wear matching colors and complementary fabrics. Some of us even have lacy, swishy things under our clothes. We accessorize.
But, when we enter those Xfit warehouse doors, all that primp and fuss flies out the window, and, my god, it’s beautiful.
We enter a land where mincing, waif-like silhouettes are the enemy. The ladies of Xfit sport big, muscled rumps and Yeti thighs. We aim to push press Fatty Arbuckle and swing kettle-bells like they’re Easter baskets full of marshmallows. We work to dominate and we want to be beasts. Call us skinny? We will snap your wishbone limbs. (Not really, but we could if we wanted to.)
I am proud of every turgid blister, angry bruise and pulled hamstring I’ve suffered. I have whomped myself in the face with a 16lb wall ball, stumbled backwards over a rowing machine, bit the dust attempting a 27-inch box jump. And you know what? My compadres kept lunging and squatting, and no one rushed over to help me glue my spine back together or gather my tooth kernels from the ground. And I liked that, a lot. They could have treated me like a crumbled Ritz cracker, but instead, they treated me like progesterone-Rocky—unbroken and coming back for more. Ahhh, I thought, I’m home.
In the outside world, we would OxyClean a pinpoint coffee stain and lint-roll dog hair from our business-casual attire. But at Xfit, we burpee in sweat puddles dotted with callus chunks. And then we flip over and pump out 50 sit-ups, mopping that soup-sludge with our hair. By the time we leave, our dry fit and exposed skin are covered by a textured five o’clock shadow, the kind you have to steel-wool off your body. It’s disgusting in a good way. And it’s liberating in a great way.
We revel in the grubby chaos—and it’s 10 times as satisfying when we’re generating it. We don’t bother with outside-world things like Kleenex; we apologetically wipe our noses on our tanks or arms or, really, whatever absorbent thing we’ve got. (And I’m not talking about capturing a benign fuzzy; I mean harnessing globs of shed nasal hairs and insect parts, a primordial goodge you can later chip off like old nail polish.) This ritual reminds us that we are not lilting flowers or clickety-heeled, fragile girls. It makes us feel like bionic, breast-plated gladiators. And we are.
Is it any wonder that we adore bad, bad words? We luxuriate and bathe in them. It’s the kind of foul language that would make your grandmother’s eyes bulge, that would send her to her chaise with a cold compress. The bumping, blasting music is motivationally raunchy, but I’m really just talking about our gutter-mouth exclamations and pet-names. In polite society we write them with $!=&#^@*%# ; in our impolite society, we use the deliciously unabridged versions. At Xfit, every chick’s a badass mother@&%*er. And we like it that way. (The men show a teensy more verbal restraint—but that’s because they’re pussies.)
I’m hella sick of other women telling me I “drank the Crossfit Kool-Aid” like it’s a bad thing. Yeah, I drank it, Miss Stick-figure—and I guzzled the fugging Tang and Country Time lemonade too. So, you just keep doing that unitard jazzer-cize and reading Emily Post to learn how to perfectly blot your lipstick for the cotillion. And me? I’ll fight my compression shorts over my substantial hips and tie back my rats-nest hair—because I may technically be a lady, but when I enter Xfit nirvana, I don’t even know what ladylike means.
Even though she routinely shaves off ¼ reps and still can’t do a regulation pull-up, Susie b Cross is proud to be a Xfit woman warrior. She is also able to mend socks, iron slacks, and make a mean Waldorf salad. She is blessed. You can find more of her writing (some goofy, some not) under Susie Bonzo on Facebook.