“You need to do burpees,” my friend announced. “What’s a burpee?” I asked.
My friend demonstrated one. Jump up. Get down onto the floor into a push up position, then stand or jump back up again (presumably one should repeat this move several times). It didn’t look so bad – a sort of cheerleading move.
My friend insisted that we women of a certain age needed to do burpees. She challenged, “When do you go down on the floor? How do you know you can get off the floor if you ever needed to?” She had a point. I couldn’t remember the last time I sat or lay on the floor, and I used to do it all the time.
I dutifully went home and tried a burpee. Ohmygoddess! Which one of Satan’s minions invented these? I look like a trussed walrus. My knee crunched (crunched!) and other joints crackled and popped as I got up. It was scary to realize how hard this move was to do. How close was I to completely losing the ability to do something as fundamental as get up from the floor unaided??
I texted my friend: Burpees blow.
She replied: Just do it
The next day, I burpeed again. It was a bit better but I had to whine anyway.
I texted: This burpee business is from hell.
She replied: Just do it.
My next text to her read: My massage therapist says burpees could make a person’s heart explode.
And so I burpee every morning – once ~ grunt~, twice, ~ oooph~, thrice, ~ugh~ – and again at night.
Burpees. Just do it… because you still can.