Don't cry for me, Argentina - The Bootkemp Sessions - July

I don't want to get too braggy, but since this *is* my
blog, I just wanted to let you know I was quite the
soccer player back in the day. Like, way back. When
I was five years old and played on an all male team
because they mistakenly thought "Kelly" was a boy's
 name. I never officially touched the ball, but I could
stand still inside the two foot diameter circle the
coach put me in and "play defense" like nobodies
business.

Do you know how I know I'm finally getting really comfortable with Kemper? I was at his house for almost a full five minutes before I had to use the bathroom. I'm pretty sure that's a new record and an indication of beautiful days ahead.

I think stopping at McDonalds twice to pee on the way over helped I was distracted by my excitement to give Kemper the sympathy card I picked out; my poor Argentinian trainer was understandably crushed after Sunday's World Cup Final, and so, with the help of Hallmark and Google translate, I was able to convey my condolences with hearts, flowers, and the phrase "Alemania chupa*" (Germany sucks) all in one missive.

#protein

*Since my Spanish is limited to what I've forgotten from two years of high school instruction (don't worry, I've held on to the important words)(like, "tu mama es facil"), I had to spend a fair amount of time picking the perfect phrase to write in the card, and then translate it. I mean, these words would be the only personalized way I could communicate my heartfelt sympathy. Unfortunately, correctly translating grand verbose sentiments takes a hella long time, so I settled for the summation of: Germany sucks. (Hilariously, the first time I tried to translate, it gave me "Alemania inhala" which translates directly to "Germany inhales", so yeah, I'm pretty glad I'm a diligent fact checker**.)

(**Not a universally true statement.)

Kemper received this card with a gracious heart, and totally didn't drop it on the floor and give me an "Oh, COME ON" look. I giggled wildly and bounced on my toes in delight, much the way my children do when they've pulled one over on me.

Once the shenanigans were over we took a few minutes to talk. Kemper checked over my food diary and macro breakdowns for each day. I eat way more fat than I thought, but as long as I'm still losing (143!!!) he is fine with me sticking with it. (I swear it's all healthy fats - eggs, avocado, double cheeseburgers, nut butter, etc.) I still have problems eating ALLTHEPROTEIN but relearning to eat is a process, so, you know, someday. We also discussed things like short-term/long-term goals and came to the conclusion that I still have no concrete idea of what I would ultimately like to do. (Good luck coming up with a training program for that, Kemp.)

Dear Internet,
Thank you for this.
Love, Kelly

The real fun began with DEADLIFTING. (Well, first I had to warm-up with jogging in place and butt kickers and other things because Kemper is a slave-driver professional trainer who cares about my health.) We did a few warm-up deadlift sets, and then moved on to my current weights. I did 1 set of 5 reps (1x5) @ 135, 2x5 @ 145, and 2x5 @ 155. Kemper tucked my chin down a little (Apparently Miss Vanity Smurf watching herself deadlift in the mirror does not help her form). My biggest problem right now with lifting for strength is waiting between each set. Kemper wants me to wait 2-3 minutes between each set to give my muscles time to chill out. Do you have any idea how long 2-3 minutes is when you are waiting to do the thing you love to do?

It.




Is.




Forever.



Thankfully Kemper didn't suffer too much during this time because I kept up a steady stream of stellar monologue conversation because I can fill some silence if given the opportunity. I definitely didn't whine about how long 2-3 minutes are. Like, ever*. (*lie) Kemper used this time to try to sell me on music that wasn't made in the 90's. It's going to be a tough sale, dude.

After deadlift it was time for barbell rows. Powerlifter Tracy taught me how to do them a few weeks ago, and Kemper approved of her prescribed form. He wants me to change up where I'm rowing (either to boobs or to bellybutton) every other time I lift to work all the parts of my lats. I did 1x5 @ 75, and 2x5 @ 85.  85 pounds was a lot heavier at Kemper's house than at Lifetime Fitness. My working theory about this is that probably because at Lifetime I lift on the second floor, and the second floor is much closer to outer space, and in outer space there is no gravity, and, you know, because of osmosis, obviously, weights are lighter at Lifetime Fitness than at Kemper's house = science. My other working theory is that Kemper yelling urgently encouraging me to, "SQUEEZE" my lats together every time I rowed may have worked me harder than I was used to. I don't know. They are both working theories. You decide.

We moved on to the lat pulldown. This was probably one of my favorite moments of the whole session. Firstly, because Kemper busted me for cheating my lat pulldown, and I have been doing it that way forever without knowing I was cheating, and now it's been corrected; secondly - totally a word - lat pulldown exposed my lack of power which could be my next training goal; and thirdly, because Kemper ghetto-rigged the whole setup which was all sorts of encouraging to me.

I sometimes get stuck in the mind frame that everything has to be perfect in order to accomplish anything. If I'm going to run distance, I need *this* specific water belt, *these* specific shoes, and follow *that* exact route or I can't do it. If I'm going to do Thursdays HIIT workout and someone is using all the slam balls, I can't say I really did it when I subbed box jumps for ball slams. Like, in my head, there is a right way and a wrong way to do something, and doing it the wrong way doesn't count. (I know. If only Kemper offered therapy for my brain as well as for my body.)

Ohmygawd, Kemper, calm down.
I think you need a Snickers.
You're not you when you're hungry.
(Snickers = PROTEIN.)

Kemper trains in his garage. His gym is an awesome set-up. While he doesn't have everything Lifetime has, he makes it happen anyway. Kemper doesn't have a lat pulldown machine. Instead he hooked up a lat pulldown bar to his squat rack and a pulley contraption, and then belted me to a stool with a resistance band. (This part was hilarious. I was honestly too horrified at seeing the band cut through the fat rolls on my stomach to say what I was really thinking, which was, "Kemper just belted me in like I'm a toddler going on a car ride," which of course made me want to ask, "Are we there yet, Dad?" a million times.)

The takeaway is that it is better to get your crap done using some ghetto rigged mechanism than it is to not get it done because you couldn't do it the way your Type A brain thought it should be done. (And just maybe some dude named Voltaire said it better when he said, "Perfect is the enemy of good.")(To-may-to / to-mah-to, whatevs.) I freaking loved this lesson, and my perfectionist heart needed to learn it.

Next TRX band rows kicked my tush. They were harder for me than deadlifting. (Also, I've come to the conclusion that a lifetime spent being overweight has solidified that I will always, regardless of current size, worry that something won't support my weight. Before I would lean back to do the rows I subtly* glanced up to read the weight restrictions on the bands - 200 pounds - and even then I wondered if 57 pounds was enough of a cushion to get by without crashing to the floor.) (*subtly = lie. I announced that whole train of thought so Kemper could also enjoy the crazy. Because I'm a giver.) We superset TRX band rows with bicep curls and for all you meatheads out there - I got swole. *giggle*

We ended the workout with back extensions and me showing off that I can do real push ups now. (Coincidentally, this is when Kemper's Super Fine Brother Oscar made a brief appearance.)(Ladies, I will forward all your emails directly to him.)(But I will probably read them first.)(Because I'm nosy.)(But I'm a good secret keeper.)(And I'm loyal.)(So you totally don't have to worry about me being all up in your "workin' your game" business with Oscar.)(You're welcome.)

Kemper worked his voodoo magic on my hurt trap. Also, he discovered that it is not really my trap. It's some muscle in my neck. He did some manipulations and some other things that he took great care to explain but because he spoke it in his Science/Anatomy Trainer Language and I'm a visual learner I will never remember it until I see it written down. But I did pretend to do a cannonball belly flop (in my head) when he told me to lie down on the yoga mat because it looked just like the waters in the Caribbean, so rest assured there was something of importance going on inside my head during this time.

(Then Kemper's mom Renee came out and offered me some freshly made juice.)(And Renee appreciated my sympathy card.)(She's currently my favorite.)

Every time I meet with Kemper I AM SO EXCITED TO BE TRAINED BY KEMPER. This is followed by a crash the next day when I realize I now have a WHOLE 'NOTHER MONTH before I can train with Kemper. It's kind of like the day after Christmas when you are a kid. You know, when you now have 364 days until Christmas.

So. 29 more days until I train with Kemper. Look out for some GAINZ until then, y'all.