Carina the Canadian Calf Torurer: The one where she takes great delight in breaking me and forces me to crawl home.

I wish I could fly.

For those who don’t know I live in an apartment on the top of a hill. An apartment that can only be reached by climbing said hill, which takes approximately 565 days in normal circumstances. Then just when you think you’ve made it and you’re basically Sir Edmund Hillary conquering Everest for the first time and you’re about to stick your country’s flag in the ground in a glorious moment of patriotic glory, you realise you’re not at the top and you actually have 4678 steps to climb before the 897 steps up to your actual apartment. And the sherpas have all given up and gone home because “carry your own damn shopping up all dem stairs”.

Anyway today I really, really wish I could fly.

Rewind back to Saturday when I trained with Carina the wicked witch of the Snap (actually she’s not, she’s the lovliest person in the world), but yeah the wicked witch of the Snap decided my “poker face” was too strong and I needed to be doing my Smith Machine calf raises at least twice as heavy.

(Note to self: Google “how to play poker” just in case you need a fall-back career and you can use your apparently too good “poker face” to become a millionaire poker player who travels the world on a billion dollar yacht smoking cigars and drinking 100 year old scotch and only stopping into port to play underground poker games with celebrities….)

Anyway, so here I am with 3 sets of 20 calf raises to go and she’s upped it to 35kg plus the bar…so basically 1000 kg.

“Actually, no we’ll do 4 more sets because that first one doesn’t count” she cackled (actually she might not have cackled but it was a situation where a cackle wouldn’t have been out of place, so lets just pretend she cackled and then hit me around the back of my legs with her broomstick).

“That first set was too light. Yeah lets do 4 more sets. Come on toes pointing out for this one. You’ve got it.”

What followed next was the most excrutiating pain I’ve ever put my baby calves through, my poker face broke in the first set, my will-power kept me going, my calves screamed in agony but I told them to shut-up (I’m so sorry my calves, I will never ignore your pain again), and after 4 sets I swear my calves were about to split through the backs of my legs and run away…far, far away from Carina, her broomstick, and her calf torture methods.

So basically I haven’t been able to walk properly for the last couple of days. It takes me about 15 years to get up to my apartment, and at work I look at all the other girls dancing around in their heels with a wistful sigh…I remember those glorious days I could wear heels too.

So this morning when I went in for training, guess what she had in store for me again…

“What?” I hear you say. “Triceps?, shoulders?, a surprise workout where you were actually going on a taste testing adventure to Doughnut Time to workout your tastebuds?”

Oh poor naïve reader. You obviously do not know my Canadian Calf Torturer…

RIP my poor calves. RIP…

Now if only I could fly, I could actually get up to my apartment…but right now me and my calves are stuck at the bottom of the hill…It’s going to be a loooooooong crawl to the top…

Or maybe I can ask Carina if I can please borrow her broomstick…

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