2 pull-ups! Double my record! Go, me! #witnessthefitness
While this isn’t exactly true in the sense of, well, true, it isn’t a lie either. The Gravitron and I are working up to two unassisted pull-ups. I’m putting it out to the Twitterverse to shame myself into making it true. What’s the harm? My daily feed is awash with belfies by Kim Kardashian and step counts from every babe with a wristband tracker.
Did crow pose in yoga for 3 seconds without face-planting! #itsthejourneynotthedestination
Mmmm — kale up in my juice again. #greenandbearit
I should feel guilty fishing for props for my modest faux-chievements, but there’s no way I’m going public with a picture of me craning my neck so my chin is this close to getting over the pull-up bar. I’m not Instagramming the rug burn on my forehead from the last time I tried crow pose. These would look pretty pathetic next to most workout selfies I see on my social networks — the rippled abs (we get it, Six-Pack; put your shirt back on), the CrossFit Amazons flipping tractor tires, the finish-line fist pumps, the blistered palms.
6 miles before breakfast. Before dawn, even! #topthatyall
My legs are useless after yesterday’s WOD. #totallyworthit
I can look pretty Jillian Michaels in 140 characters — you see what I mean? But I have a feeling that plenty of the people I’m following are likewise posting the only Olympic lift they eked out with textbook form and sucking it in for the sports bra shot.
For now, I’m going to continue being optimistically truthy about my athletic feats and meanwhile keep training to be a fraction as inspiring as the smack my Twitter handle is talking.
Cronut: Breakfast of champions! #sorrynotsorry