Still Busy Doing Warrior Stuffs

Texts with Hubby
Oh, and this year's Warrior Dash viking helmet.
I posted this on Instagram.
Where you can follow me.
I'm Sublurbanmama.
I know, it's a stretch.

Happy bi-yearly blog post!

Last week I was pulled from a sound sleep by the repeated peals of "Mama...Mama...Mama..." from across the house. It was hella early, and as I stumbled in a haze through the hallway to find the origin of my summoning, I could only speculate that the dear child who needed me so desperately was trapped in a sinkhole that suddenly struck our laundry room, or bound and held captive by suburban pirates who wanted to steal the giant container of Starbucks Skinny Vanilla Latte in the fridge, because for what other possible logical reason would the blessing from my womb be waking me at such an awful hour of the day?

I peeked in the bathroom to find my cherished only son sprawled like an octopus about the toilet - his rear inside the bowl with the rest of his limbs splayed akimbo. "Mama, it's about time you got here. Can you wipe me?" (1. Dude. Really? Gross.) (2. He's five. I KNOW ALRIGHT.) (I make myself feel better about wiping his tush by pretending it's my secret Super Hero identity "The Obliterator of Filth".) (Also, I have a Poop Alarm Clock. Don't get too jelly.)

In case you were wondering if my life got any less glamorous since I last blogged, rest assured, I'm still living like a Kardashian. And by that I mean large portions of my day are spent giving attention to the derriere of one family member in particular. *cough* Ezra *cough*

Other than living the Stay At Home Mama dream I am still plugging away with powerlifting. My shoulder is healing nicely, albeit slowly. (2000 Awesome Points for "albeit" usage.) I was officially released from physical therapy in June, and since I'd been there so.freaking.long they named a private room after me gave me two free t-shirts instead of one. #baller #knowspeople

Totally not me because I'm not stupid and
know to get my pop culture info from google
and Urban Dictionary like a responsible 36 year old

While I do miss the people at therapy I'm really really really happy to be back working towards my original goals. One thing injury cemented for me is that I know now I enjoy the strength aspect of lifting more than body building. While I do some body building work for aesthetic purposes (because c'mon, Mama Bear needs some fly lookin' delts)(if you didn't picture me saying that as Regina Goerge's mom, you're reading it wrong) (because I'm not a regular mom, I'm a cool mom) (obviously), most body building I do as accessory work for my big three lifts. There is just something unappealing about doing a million reps of a lift that works one main muscle at a time. It bores me and it is challenging in the wrong kind of way. It makes me feel like, "Oh, this is so not fun and the challenge is rooted solely in making myself finish the set." Powerlifting, where I'm lifting really heavy weights for a few reps, works a bunch of huge muscles at a time and has me all, "OHMYLANTA I WONDER IF I CAN LIFT THIS WEIGHT WITHOUT CRAPPING MY PANTS." (If you have to guess which of those two thoughts is more fun to have I don't even know why we're friends.) Plus? In powerlifting I get to wear a belt, so....

This is the closest I will ever come to being a fitness blogger/social media superstar because the level of embarrassment I had over taking this selfie at the gym was ridiculous. But there is me, in the far away mirror, rocking my capri's and Converse, and documenting that I did lift two hundred and thirty five freaking pounds. Twice.

The hardest part of this year has definitely been maintaining my weight. The hard part is that gaining weight makes me so much stronger. Like, not marginally stronger either. It's like "DAYUM GURL, go on and eat those Larry and Lenny protein cookies Wheaties because = 30# PR's for daaaaaaays" stronger. And that is seductive. What's not seductive is the discovery that my favorite dress no longer fits. So this year I am finding my sweet spot, or window really, of where I'm comfortable being as far as numbers on the scale. (Honestly, there is something I like about saying, "I've lost 100 pounds." I need to weigh 153 to be truthful for that. I also want to compete in the 148 weight class when I'm ready to compete. So my happy training window is around 153 strictly for emotional reasons. And I'm okay with that.)(Kind of. It was also really nice weighing 143 pre-shoulder injury, and I have a hard time not making that my new standard for where I need to be.)(Like, I'll weigh in at 153 and feel like I'm 10 pounds overweight and I get temporary amnesia where I forget that I'm still down ONE HUNDRED FREAKING POUNDS and all I can see are those ten pounds up from my lowest adult weight and I feel like I'm at my heaviest all over again.)(Also? The Kelly that was 253 pounds wants to smack 153 pound Kelly for even struggling with this ten pound dilemma.)(But 153 pound Kelly totally gets it.)

So there is a little bit of an update for y'all! I've gotten so many emails this summer and I appreciate every one of you that take the time to read this little blog! Thanks again from the bottom of my heart. (Which is the best part.)(Because it's closest to my tummy.)(And that's where all the cookies are.) #science

I'm pretty sure Jake is a meth dealer.

Delt and Trap inhibitor taping
Kinesio tape 4 lyfe

I'm equally in awe and super pissed at the complexity of the human shoulder. There are a lot of little muscles, tendons, arteries and such streaming allllll through that mess. I've discovered that they are all a bit interconnected. If you make one angry they can collectively gang up on you in group protest, because apparently they have unionized and know the power of collective bargaining. Like, "Oh, Kel, you messing with ROTATOR CUFF? Let me introduce you to Rotator's friends: Pec Major, Pec Minor, Long Bicep, Delt, and Tri. Under the superb leadership of Captain Trapezius they will no longer be working for you. Until, of course, you take care of Rotator Cuff who is a giant PITA and made up of a billion (or four - whatever) tendons."

In related news, that shoulder injury I mentioned in passing a few months ago? IS SLOWLY KILLING ME. When it wasn't healing on its own (i.e. me complaining about it and icing it sporadically) I ended up at physical therapy three times a week where they actually had a plan in place to fix my rotator cuff (and pec major, pec minor, and long bicep)(because they are all in on it). This plan involved rehabilitation that included not only a therapist and a team of techs but also the instructions that I not lift anything outside of therapy.

I'll let that sink in a moment.

No lifting. No training for my powerlifting meet. No access to my favorite (and most effective) method of stress management. No getting stronger or sculpting my body. No lifting.

My first session should have been a heads up that I was going to need to be in this for the long haul. My assessment was with my new physical therapist Jake (who fully embraced Movember by growing a wicked 'stache and saying the words "testicular cancer" way too frequently) (and also scarily reminded me of Walter White from Breaking Bad with his shaved head and reddish mustache) (the obvious conclusion is that Jake is a meth dealer) (I'm pretty sure). He also totally reminds me of my little brother in that he doesn't think I'm funny at all let me get away with ANYTHING.

Our first session went well. By well I mean I fully expected to be rehabilitated and back lifting my maxes in less than a week and Jake understood the reality of the situation and CRUSHED MY SOUL with the truth.

An average therapy session starts with 15 minutes of heat, then moves on to a bunch of exercises to strengthen my back and the muscles in my shoulder. I do these exercises under the supervision of one of three techs: Matteo, Tim, or Shane. At home I call them The White Hats because they remind me of the easy-going jock frat boys from college. Their primary job is to make sure I am doing each exercise safely and effectively tell on me to Jake when I ask to up my weights again. These guys are so much fun.

Next is 20 minutes of hands on therapy with Jake while we fight about what I can and can't do at the gym, a short ultrasound treatment (that I'm convinced is going to give me super powers a la Peter Parker and the radioactive spider bite), and finishes with 15 of the best minutes of my life spent in a machine called GAME READY *angel chorus sings*.

"Darling, it pains me that you can't deadlift."

Game Ready is a cold and compression machine that feels like swimming in McDonald's iced coffee while Tom Hiddleston reads you poetry and calls you "darling" in Loki's voice. I get velcroed (totally a verb) in an arm/shoulder sling and sit while it pulses icy water all around and squeezes my poor, tortured muscles. It feels incredible.

There will be Game Ready in heaven.

So therapy is both awesome and terrible. Awesome because I love the people at the rehab clinic (even Jake but don't tell him), and terrible because they give me one pound dumbbells and I have to make myself *not* act like a disdainfully smug jerk holding them. Also, the ban on lifting has been obeyed by me completely at all times. (That sentence is a lie.)

It's hella hard to watch the months of hard work I put in at the gym disappear. I feel like I'm deflating. I spent the first two months of therapy nodding along to the rules Jake gave me and then going and doing whatever I wanted at the gym. That, of course, is the real reason I'm still hurt.

I'm the worst patient ever and also my own greatest enemy, because me ignoring my therapist has only resulted in him being crazily frustrated with me (picture him super pissed and actually hanging his head while he says, "IT'S JUST THAT YOU ARE CONSTANTLY PUSHING BOUNDARIES" as I sit like a lectured toddler while my bottom lip quivers but also like a petulant teenager while my heart screams, "BUT JAKE, YOU DON'T KNOW MY PAIN." (Of course I mean my figurative pain of being banned from lifting. Duh.)

If you missed the 90's I feel for you.
Because: this meme doe

Jake says, "Maaaaaaaybe you can try some wall push ups if you are careful," and I'm all, "I think what Jake meant was bench pressing heavy weight with full range of motion is now approved."  *Enter Lisa Loeb singing, "You say I only hear what I want to."*

About a month ago Kemper put his foot down and basically told me my only job right now is to heal my shoulder. Any muscle building/strength training would have to be secondary to getting my shoulder/chest back. And amazingly, listening to Kemper's directive to rest my shoulder (which Jake had been telling me for *literally* months) actually worked. I'm on the real road to recovery. Finally. Hoorah.

Barbells, Beards, and Bald heads Oh My!

ROOOOAAAAADDDD TRRIIIIIIIPPPPPP!

Okay, so that might be a generous description for what was, although an extremely bad@ss time, only a two hour drive and a seven hour experience. Day trip, maybe? Whatever. All I know is that this mama of four, after spending ten days at Disney World, set off on a solo adventure across state to observe what would become her favorite sport in the history of the world.

That's right. It's time for a little report of the Michigan APF Fall Open. (Since I know the majority of you reading this are learning about powerlifting with me, I'm going to try to explain everything I needed explained to me. So, APF = American Powerlifting Federation. The Open meet would offer three events - the squat, bench press, and deadlift. This is different from the meet I will be doing in January, which is just a Push/Pull; push = bench press, and pull = deadlift.)

"Hey Kemp, remember when you worked your
voodoo magic on my hip flexor? Too bad Imma
use my new found flexibility to ROUNDHOUSE
KICK YOUR FACE IF YOU TAKE MY ICED
COFFEE." (Seriously, bro, I know. Post workout
iced coffee is legit.)

The meet started at 9:00 am, but there was an informational meeting for the athletes at 8:00 that I wanted to crash. I planned to leave my house at 5:30 am in order to get there on time. My first stop was (duh) McDonalds for iced coffee. (I can see Kemper wincing at this news.)(Don't worry, Kemp, I also got an Egg McMuffin with an extra serving of egg whites.)(Somehow I don't think the "muffin" portion of that confession made Kemper feel better about the Carb Fest that is McDonalds Nectar of the Gods Sugar Free French Vanilla iced coffee.)(Total disclosure - totally worth it.)(Like, I would cage fight Kemper and win if iced coffee was on the line.)(Huzzah.)

I was honestly kicking butt on the drive over. I was flying down the highway, listening to early morning radio and Driver's Seat Performing whatever chart topper cued up. I noticed about an hour into my drive that my shoulder with the rotator cuff injury was getting a little sore from changing the radio station so frequently using my death crush of a super strong grip to hold the steering wheel, and that's when I realized I'd left my instant ice packs at home. No problem - I'd just stop off at the next exit that had a Meijer or a drug store and pick some up.

This would have been a stellar plan if the exit I chose also had a functional on ramp to get me back to the highway.

Not again.

Since I don't have a data plan for my phone (enter rant here) I couldn't look up an alternate route, so I had no choice but to get on the highway going the opposite direction and pull an illegal u-turn. Because clearly that was my only option. (Don't tell my sis the cop.)(Although she would totally agree with me out of family loyalty only.)


I finished the drive and arrived at the venue approximately five minutes after the informational meeting I'd booked it out there to hear was finished. Awesome.


The meet was held at DeVos Convention Center in Grand Rapids, Michigan. It's a really pretty building, and the APF rented out two meeting rooms for the event. One room was for the judging and the other was a warmup area and general place to hang out.

Walls of Jericho, anyone? I remember watching
Earthmover practice in the basement of the Hasty
House/Beaverland Ranch. #memories

Walking into the warmup room I was overwhelmed with Feels. Firstly, it felt so familiar. Years ago I was a hardcore music scene kid. This was back in the 90's when people wore baggy pants and *ahem* wallet chains and I got horrible tattoos and rad body piercings that I will still deny publicly ever having to this day. I embraced the counter-culture aspect of the hardcore scene. I connected to the "tough as nails/defeat is not an option/fight The Man" personal philosophy of the scene persona. I loved the freedom to be a little bit different. The freedom to embrace the dichotomy of being a sweet, quiet girl who loved screamy music filled with power chords and the inevitable breakdown.

Walking into the powerlifting meet felt like returning to my youth. I told Brian later it was like the scene grew up and got into lifting. I understood the people. I got the music. I felt the camaraderie. *sighs dramatically and gazes earnestly* It felt like going home.

monolith squat rack after it jumped
out of nowhere and tried to maim
my cheek.

I found Sara and dumped my stuff with her. I'd packed all my food for the day since I wasn't sure how long the meet would last. Sara gave me a quick tour of the meet set up and I "saw" my first monolith squat rack in person. "Saw" is the new way I'm describing running into it with my face because I wasn't paying attention to where I was going. I met some new people as we waited for the start. The National Anthem was played (totally wasn't expecting that) and the meet began.

Squats started the day. Each lifter turns in their "openers" - the weight they want to attempt for their first lift. The order of athletes is scheduled with lifts going from lightest to heaviest. This makes sense because with each new lifter the spotters only have to add weight to the bar, not completely unload it. Each person gets three lifts in each event, but the attempts are separated by a rotation through the line up, very similar to batting order in baseball. Each lift is judged by three people who individually vote if the lift is good or not. It takes 2 out of 3 white lights for a lift to be counted.

"Whut."

Watching people lift left my mind completely blown. Since powerlifting is an individual sport, numbers are really subjective. How much someone can lift is often considered in correlation with their body weight. For example, a 200 lb deadlift may not be that impressive to a lot of people, but when a tiny little 98 lb woman lifts it, people (um, me) be like, "Whut."

After squatting came bench press. This was Powerlifter Sara's first event. I was hyper nervous, so literally no encouragement cheering was coming from my mouth yet. Sara is crazy strong, so she did great on bench. I spent a lot of time observing protocol, getting a lay of logistics, and noticing why people failed certain lifts.

Firstly, yes, this picture is huge. But here you can clearly see all the players involved in this crazy
pageant of awesomeness. The woman on the left in the pink and the two men in white shirts are the judges. The two men in black standing next to the plates on the barbell are the spotters. They are there to stop you from dying if you fail the lift. The man in black holding the barbell over Sara is her handler Bob. Sara is on the bench with her super cute braids done by yours truly that you can not see. Not pictured: the super hot spotter who just happened to make every other picture I took that day. 

After bench was my favorite event: deadlift. 

Sara and her braids deadlifting.

I don't know this dude at all but his beard is on point.
Also, Brian makes fun of me every time I say on point.

By the time we got to the deadlift portion I felt a lot more confident in my decision to compete in powerlifting. The environment is so encouraging. After I got over my nerves I was able to fully join in with the yelling* that happens when someone struggles on a lift. I watched a lot of people fail on lifts, especially in the third rounds, and no one made fun of them. That really changed my whole approach to choosing my goal weights. Why go conservative when it doesn't hurt to try for all you got?

(*The yelling = I loved hearing one guy in particular yell encouragement to his buddies. In fact, I took his pic to show to Powerlifter Tracey because he was wearing a t-shirt from the gym where she trains and I figured she would be able to identify him. I want to be adopted into his lifting family so he can yell awesome cues to me like, "CHEST UP! SQUEEZE YOUR @SS!" because duh, then I totally will because his cues are both succinct and yelled with authority.)

(Seriously, I totally want this to happen.)

The day culminated with me witnessing an EIGHT HUNDRED FOUR POUND deadlift. Guys, this seems incomprehensible to me. You know my undying love for my Internet Boyfriend Elliott Hulse from Strength Camp? I remember my mind being completely blown that he could deadlift more than 600 pounds. EIGHT HUNDRED FOUR POUNDS? is ridiculous. Here is a picture of that happening:

While this was happening, it was loud in the room. But when those three white lights lit up indicating the lift was good it was like OUR TEAM WON THE SUPER BOWL.
(I also posted this to Instagram.)(Because did you know I'm on Instagram now?)(Sublurban Mama)(Follow that mess.)

So that is my recap of attending my first ever powerlifting meet. Welcome to the world of powerlifting y'all. Buckle your seat belts. We are in for a ride.