Competitive? Who, me?

So, I have a confession to make. I am *maybe* a bit competitive. Maybe.

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Ok, fine. Yes, I’m competitive. I try not to be a jerk about it, but I can’t make any promises.

– Cheerleading in high school? Guarantee my team was better than yours.
– Co-workers on my Jawbone Up team got 12,000 steps in? Good job! But now I need to go take a walk so I can have 22,000.
– You’re doing sprints right next to me? You better believe I’m trying to beat you.
– You insist you’re tough? Let me show you how I’m tougher. (This one doesn’t even make sense – I just like the pic below HA)

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What’s the point of this, Jessie? Oh, yes. The reason I could barely walk on Monday/Tuesday can be entirely blamed on my competitiveness.

So, there I was, minding my own business in my apartment gym by myself around 5:30 on Sunday night after work. I did 20 minutes on the stairmaster while reading my book club book for this month (which I LOVE so far – maybe I’ll do a review!) and then decided to do some deadlifts, squats and lunges with a barbell. I’m just about done with my last set of lunges, drop the barbell and start bopping around to BassNectar bass-dropping in my headphones when in walks one of the other residents.

He may or may not be slightly attractive.

I’ll just put that out there.

Anyways, he smirks at me because he totally caught me dancin’ to my music in the mirrors (#rude) and then starts setting up the machines he’s going to be using. Mind you, our building has one big open space, but only a small mat with all of the weights. So, I finish up my last set of squats, knowing quite well that he’s watching me and not being inconspicuous about it at all. And then something happens. I decide my *light* workout is not yet over and I’m gonna show Mr. Muscle-Man up in the gym.

So, back on the stairmaster I went. Only this time, I went HARD. I wasn’t reading my book, playing on Instagram – No. I went as fast as I could while he was on the treadmill. Then he starts walking around the gym slamming weights all over the place. You know, instead of just nicely setting the weight down like a normal person? No. He’s slamming them like he’s mad at them. “DONE WITH THIS ARM CURL – SLAM” “DONE WITH THIS OTHER ARM THING THAT JESSIE HAS NO IDEA WHAT THE MACHINE IS CALLED – SLAM!” I just keep going as hard as I can on the stairmaster until my 30 minutes is up.

He’s still slamming his weights around. Funny thing is, after every set, he would pace around the gym like he had to get himself amped for his next set. Whatevs. Says the girl that’s now been working out for over an hour just to judge said boy.

Then I go on the treadmill and do an incline walk for 10 minutes.

Am I done yet?

NOPE.

I decide I’m going to do some more of those weighted deadlifts, squats and lunges. After about 50 of each, I put down the barbell and realize that my entire body is shaking. Not the, “hey, nice workout!” type of shake. Nope. I’m talking the “YOU ARE GOING TO PASS OUT YOU MORON, SIT DOWN” type shake. At that point I just laughed to myself, start walking my poor, broken body to the elevator when all of a sudden weight-slamming boy goes, “Hey, nice squat form.”

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And that, my friends, is the story of why I couldn’t walk all of Monday and Tuesday and why I have a bruise on my upper back (from the barbell). Funniest thing is, I told a few people that story and they all just shook their head because it didn’t surprise them. What?! Me? Competitive? WHATEVER.

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At least I got a good workout out of it. 😉

Any other competitive peeps out there? I’m sure the attractiveness of the boy amped up my competitiveness, but this story didn’t seem to surprise anyone who knows me.