Kettlebells, War Machines and Reinventing . . .

Once again, I was going to write about something entirely different than what I am about to write about, but since I don't yet have pictures to accompany what I was going to write about, but I do have pictures about what I am about to write about, I decided to write about that, instead. Just another day inside an unmedicated ADD brain, peeps! A taste of what Bob had to deal with for nearly 20 years . . .

Dragon Door Kettlebells . . .

So, a few weeks ago—I think I briefly mentioned this in a previous post—I went through a certification course to teach kettlebells, and I am now a bona fide kettlebell instructor. God help us all . . . here is a brief "history" of kettlebells, thanks to an article I quickly plucked off the internet, by Mike Bromley (Dear Baby Jesus, please let this be proper referencing for an internet article, so the internet police doesn't break down my door and haul me to jail for stealing . . . amen)

What is a Kettlebell?

A kettlebell is a Russian type of hand weight that is shaped like a big cannonball with a handle. Often made out of pure cast iron, they are available in a wide range of weights and sizes. The lightest one weighs in at less than 10 pounds, and they can increase in weight all the way up to 100 pound weights. These unique tools are used in a wide range of strength training exercises, to increase muscle and build endurance. 

The History

Kettlebells originated in Russia, and the first recorded mention of them was in 1704 within a Russian dictionary. The Russian word for Kettlebells is "girya," and the men who lifted these weights were called "gireviks." Kettlebells gained recognition as a superb weight loss tool when they were featured in the fitness magazine Hercules in 1913. In the recent history of the Kettlebell, they have become increasingly popular within the United States thanks to a man named Pavel Tsatsouline. Tsatsouline is a fitness author who used to be a trainer for not only the United States armed forces but the Soviet Union forces as well. Once the United States noticed that they could not endure as long as their Russian counterparts within competitions, they began incorporating the kettlebell into their training routines. In 1985 a committee for the sport of Kettlebell lifting was created, and the first National Championship for Kettlebells was help in Russia in 1985 with its own set of rules and standards. Today, the Kettlebell is being introduced into the fitness routines of the everyday man, as their benefits have proven them to be one of the most useful tools for building strength.

The Benefits

As the long history of the Kettlebell proves, it has many benefits to offer those who use it on a regular basis. These benefits include:

• The building of endurance.
• Toning and Strengthening of almost every muscle of the body.
• Allows you to take harder hits.
• Increases flexibility.
• Helps you to shed fat.
• Gives you the freedom to get an intensive workout from home.

The history of the Kettlebell is a long and proven record of its effectiveness. These unique exercise tools have been used by individuals around the world for hundreds of years to build muscle, lose fat, and strengthen their endurance

Article Source: http://EzineArticles.com/1850860


So, why ketttlebells, of all the possible useful skills one could possibly learn, Jen? Why not knitting, or hey—something really beneficial, like changing the oil in your own car?! you may or may not be asking. Funny you should ask. Or not. I'll tell you anyway. A few years before Bob and I moved out to the boonies, while we were still in Roseville (maybe 8 or so years ago), I was just getting into my "health and wellness" lifestyle. And by "just getting into," I mean I was still sneaking a cigarette every now and then when I went out for drinks with girlfriends (I used to joke that I only smoked when I drank, so I was drinking all the time . . .), I was obsessed with low-fat—you name it—yogurt, sour cream, microwave popcorn, ice cream, cookies, Tostitos (makes my stomach churn, just typing those words. . . more on that big ugly erroneous error later. Maybe.), chugging diet Coke like it was going out of style (whatever the hell that means, because if something is going out of style, why would one want to do more of it?!) but I was also starting to explore and experiment in the realm of fitness—walking the dogs every day, joined Lifetime Fitness and heading to step aerobics a few times a week, hiking, camping and kayaking with Bob and friends whenever we could. When we moved out to Wrenwood in 2005, I joined a local gym in Stillwater, a cute little place where the average age of participants was about 75, which, by sheer association, made me look and feel like an elite athlete. No offense to the elderly, but seriously . . . I didn't have a real point to my workouts at that time other than to become more active, but I was consistent, and in the process, was learning and growing, nonetheless.

Around that time, I saw an article about a local woman named Marty Larson, who was teaching this crazy-assed workout called kettlebells in the St. Croix Valley area. She was a kettlebell "pioneer" in the Twin Cities, being one of the first in the area to be a certified instructor. As she hadn't yet opened her cutting edge wellness studio in Stillwater, Uncommon Age, she was teaching classes wherever she could find space—in church basements, school gyms, outside in parks, even. I remember reading this article, thinking how freakin' KOOL, with a Kaptial K! kettlebells looked, and even went so far as picking up the phone to call and sign up for a class, but chickened out at the last minute and hung up on her answering machine. Still in the early stages of my health and wellness path, I was intimidated as hell by the sheer athleticism kettlebells seemed to require. Though my last name is Hildebrandt, which, in southern Minnesota, is synonymous with uber athlete, I did not inherit that gene (though I have to brag a minute—for a short while, I did hold the Mt. Lake Elementary Presidential Fitness record for the hanging chin-up—girlie version—oh, back in 1975 or so. Wonder if my name is still up on the grade school gym wall . . . ). I ended up with the geek gene, which isn't very useful when a vollyball comes flying at one's head and one has no idea what to do except squeeze one's eyes closed tight and flail one's arms wildly, hoping it'll fly away on its own. I'm here to tell you: it will not. But the geek gene is also not a bad thing—in fact, is far better insurance in finding gainful employment as an adult, because, let's face it, not everyone can be a Tiger Woods or a, a, a, errrr . . . ummmm . . . sorry, professional athletes' names don't easily fall off my tongue . . .

My dad died in January of 2007, Bob suffered his first heart attack three months later (the foreshadowing to our nineteen months in hell, two years later), which really kicked us into high-gear, health-wise. Smoking was no longer the cute little "part-time" habit for me, and I quit for good. Bob joined the cute li'l gym with me but eventually, due to time constraints, we segued to a home-gym set-up, with a treadmill, weights and pull-up bar, to complement our already active, nature-lovin' lifestyle and daily dog walks. The more I learned and growed, the more I realized that "fresh and natural" were the way to go. Easy peasy. "Low-fat" and "no fat" became synonymous with "The Devil" in my mind, when I started researching nutrition like a banshee (you may be unaware of how much banshees know about nutrition) and learned how toxic the chemicals that make up most foods "low-fat" are. Processed foods suddenly became almost non-existent in our house, though, thankfully, I am not a zealot about anything—the underachiever in me, likely. As much as I incorporated fresh, organic produce, lean meats and grains into our diet, I also shrugged an "oh, well," when Bob brought home the occasional bag of jalapeno-cheddar Cheetos and washed it down with a Dr Pepper. He was 99% on board with our lifestyle changes, but he had also been through enough, already and life is too short to not indulge in a treat now and then—besides, if I had ixnayed the Cheetos, then there too, went my DQ Heath Blizzard with a side of salty fries for dippin' . . .

Along with this new and improved lifestyle, came thoughts of career changes for me. I had been a hairdresser for over fifteen years and was at a crossroads: it was simply no any fun any more. That's a bad sign when you're a hairdresser, and trust me, you do not want to be on the receiving end of those sheers when that day come. Your whining about a "bad hair day" might be met with a sharp, "Yeah, well shut your piehole! It's hair, for the love of god and small kids, not cancer. Get over it!" Followed by a resounding whack! and suddenly, unwittingly, you're donating a foot of hair to Locks of Love . . .

I dreamt about going back to school for my MFA in writing, but also felt a strong pull to do something—at least part time—in the health and wellness field, which was was the shorter, less expensive path of the two. I had just begun studying to become a personal trainer when Bob got sick in October of 2009. That plan went to the far back burner and quite frankly, was pretty much forgotten, other than the maniacal cooking I did for Bob, during his illness—desperate attempts to do anything to counter/control the horrific effects of the disease and treatments . . .

Fast forward six years. Bob died on May 3, 2011, I was (and in many ways still am) a mess. But, y'all know that because I've dumped the whole damn story on you for the past two and a half years, no need to rehash. After Bob's death, my dear friend, Lisa (whom I had "met" on an online women's fitness website a few years prior, incidentally), who had unexpectedly lost her beloved son, Sam only six weeks prior to Bob dying, talked me into going to a kettlebells class in Woodbury with her. She, also in the depths of immense grief, told me, "Jen, for one hour, all you have to do is think about not dropping a 25 lb. cannonball on your head. It'll be good for you . . ." I wasn't even sure I was capable of doing that much, but I agreed to go and was hooked from my first kettlebell swing. For a year, it was the only thing I was consciously doing to take care of myself. I wasn't eating, wasn't sleeping, still surprised I didn't start smoking again . . .

I was at the Woodbury studio for only a week when the instructor moved out of state and a new one took her place, which sent the group into a little tizzy and felt too boot-camp-ish for my fragile state. Hooked as I was, after a mere week or so, I searched for a kettlebell instructor near Stillwater, and was directed to a unique little studio on the north edge of town. It was Marty Larson's studio, Uncommon Age. What goes around, comes around . . . I absolutely adore her studio, her "whole-istic" approach to health and wellness. In a few words: she rocks. And, once again, I am a "whipper snapper" in the group, on the younger end of the spectrum, as I'd guess the average age of clients at the studio is 50+. But instead of strolling on a treadmill, chit-chattin' while barely breaking a sweat, these 40, 50, and 60-somethings are sweating, muscling and haulin' ass with kettlebells. Strong, healthy, flexible, mobile . . .

KBI crew at Uncommon Age . . .

After less than a year with her studio (and a six month hiatus from kettlebells during my self-imposed exile into St. Paul), Marty sensed my restrained enthusiasm and talked me into going through the instructor's certification—an intense, weekend-long combination of lecture and intense workouts with kettlebells . . . I completed the course (followed by a bout of whooping cough), and have been working with her and other instructors, assisting at classes as much as I can, till I feel comfortable to take over some classes on my own. My hope is to also add private sessions, as I get more experience . . .

Next up on the docket in July—training to be an instructor on an awesomely bizarre S&M dungeon contraption called the CrossCore (aka, War Machine, to all you hard-core athletes . . .). On a seemingly unrelated note, there's a phenomenon called, "widow brain," that many I've met on this f'n journey talk about, and I'm thinking this qualifies as a great example of "what the EFF was I thinking???" in regard to the CrossCore  But then again, it's about as close to my dream of being in the circus as I'll ever get . . .


On the way home from obtaining my certification, I thought of the things that I've done since Bob died—kettle bell cert, Hamline University classes, motorcycle license, the endless love and support of friends and family, meeting new friends along the way, reconnecting with old . . . I started crying so hard, I could barely see the road, and almost pulled over . . . The bizarre conundrum of grief: feeling at once, so proud, yet suddenly, so unexpectedly, almost engulfed with a tsunami of sadness, knowing the only reason I'm doing any of this is because Bob died. . . there are so many times I still find myself crying, "fuck all this reinventing . . . I would give it all back, infinite-fold, to have my old life back . . ." but that ain't gonna happen, and my other choice is to remain in a tight bud, so instead, I keep on reinventing . . . xxoo