This morning was absolute garbage! After making the mistake of assuming that the gym I normally go to on post was out one pool (the HVAC was broken, supposedly), I didn't call and actually check. This led me to go to the "big" gym on post, which only allows lap swimming from 1200-1300 (which is when I hit the weight room with my team). Evidently, during the early hours of the morning (READ: when everyone's doing fucking PT), the pool is reserved for drown-proofing. Even more entertaining is that it's usually drown-proofing for Special Forces or Rangers. Now, I have only been in the Army about eight years, but I generally assume that if you're in a sexy high-speed unit like SF or the Rangers, you probably know how to fucking swim. So WTF, people?
In any case, I had no recourse but to ride the fancy exercise bike that resembles something Lance Armstrong would ride. Well kudos to you, Lance, but my gooch is not a fan of spending hours on end astride what basically amounts to an iron bar with a foam pad on it. Maybe you have amazing gooch workouts for those Livestrong fans of yours, but I'm not one of them.
(but seriously, Lance, you're a great guy and an inspiration, despite my rants about the apparent structural weakness of my taint in comparison to yours, which is obviously made of adamantium)
So I finished my bike workout by cowboy-walking out of the gym with a bad attitude and a sore groin, having missed a glorious, vomit-inducing iteration of 30-60s, pullups, and abs with my team. Chewing on a Pro Bar (Art's Original, nom nom nom) and sipping coffee, I decided never to skip a workout with the team for the gym, no matter what kind of injury I may be nursing. After that, it was apparent that the morning plot had thickened when I hopped out of the car and approached two of my buddies in the parking lot who were standing around aimlessly.
"There water in the showers is cold," remarked one, gym bag in hand and pained smirk on face.
So off I went to the barracks (where I don't live because I"m married) to beg a free hot shower from one of the guys I work with. Fortunately, in the Army, we have that glorious and sometimes crippling institution known as loyalty, and I was under hot water, scrubbing myself happily within 20 minutes.
The remains of the day were nothing exceptional. We prepped a block of instruction on some new gear during the early morning, then pitched the class after lunch (which was split between working out and eating a badass sandwich and some Pirate Booty). I didn't instruct anyone on the gear, but I also knew all about it, which put me in the precarious and brain death-inducing position of sitting by idly hoping someone would have a question that only I knew the answer to. I found myself instead hoping for an opportune moment of distraction in which I could shove my head into the kit bag and sleep for two or three minutes. Naturally, upon realizing that this would be harder to explain that I originally thought, I gave up on the plan, and used a scanner to rock out to Los Tigres del Whatever (it was the Mexican station, and having grown up five minutes from Mexico, I've realized that just about every banda group is Los Tigres of something).
And now here I sit at home, waiting for Matt to come over and drop off the extra gear from Sunday's musical awesomeness. I see either Lego Star Wars or Battlestar Galactica in my future, complimented by a stiff blast of Tullamore Dew, which my wife sweetly picked up from the grocery store for some unknown reason.
What a woman
In any case, I had no recourse but to ride the fancy exercise bike that resembles something Lance Armstrong would ride. Well kudos to you, Lance, but my gooch is not a fan of spending hours on end astride what basically amounts to an iron bar with a foam pad on it. Maybe you have amazing gooch workouts for those Livestrong fans of yours, but I'm not one of them.
(but seriously, Lance, you're a great guy and an inspiration, despite my rants about the apparent structural weakness of my taint in comparison to yours, which is obviously made of adamantium)
So I finished my bike workout by cowboy-walking out of the gym with a bad attitude and a sore groin, having missed a glorious, vomit-inducing iteration of 30-60s, pullups, and abs with my team. Chewing on a Pro Bar (Art's Original, nom nom nom) and sipping coffee, I decided never to skip a workout with the team for the gym, no matter what kind of injury I may be nursing. After that, it was apparent that the morning plot had thickened when I hopped out of the car and approached two of my buddies in the parking lot who were standing around aimlessly.
"There water in the showers is cold," remarked one, gym bag in hand and pained smirk on face.
So off I went to the barracks (where I don't live because I"m married) to beg a free hot shower from one of the guys I work with. Fortunately, in the Army, we have that glorious and sometimes crippling institution known as loyalty, and I was under hot water, scrubbing myself happily within 20 minutes.
The remains of the day were nothing exceptional. We prepped a block of instruction on some new gear during the early morning, then pitched the class after lunch (which was split between working out and eating a badass sandwich and some Pirate Booty). I didn't instruct anyone on the gear, but I also knew all about it, which put me in the precarious and brain death-inducing position of sitting by idly hoping someone would have a question that only I knew the answer to. I found myself instead hoping for an opportune moment of distraction in which I could shove my head into the kit bag and sleep for two or three minutes. Naturally, upon realizing that this would be harder to explain that I originally thought, I gave up on the plan, and used a scanner to rock out to Los Tigres del Whatever (it was the Mexican station, and having grown up five minutes from Mexico, I've realized that just about every banda group is Los Tigres of something).
And now here I sit at home, waiting for Matt to come over and drop off the extra gear from Sunday's musical awesomeness. I see either Lego Star Wars or Battlestar Galactica in my future, complimented by a stiff blast of Tullamore Dew, which my wife sweetly picked up from the grocery store for some unknown reason.
What a woman