Mr. Winky Goes To A CrossFit Box

I have not been very conscientious about protecting Mr. Winky over the years. Throughout a lifetime of carelessness I have subjected him to multiple chemical burns and countless assaults from an endless variety of projectiles. Today I wacked him on his head; he never saw coming. It was an accident. I apologized profusely. Just to be clear, Mr. Winky is a euphemism for the centerpiece of my family jewels, the royal staff, if you will.

The mishap occurred just after I finished my Barbell Skillz for today’s CrossFit WOD. CrossFit, sometimes called CultFit by the unindoctrinated, is an intense strength and conditioning program designed to produce elite fitness in twenty and thirty-somethings and painful injuries in forty and fifty-somethings. I fall into the latter category. The WOD is CrossFit lingo for Workout of the Day, which is a synonym for torture.

Anyway, after completing my barbell work I began putting away my weights. At Oceanside CrossFit, we store the weights by stacking them on a pole. Prudence dictates that when placing a twenty kilogram weight back on the stack, one should not drop it nor stand too close to a descending weight accelerating at 9.8 meters per second squared. I don’t care much for prudence or dictators, and I stood way, way too close to the falling mass and sort of grazed Mr. Winky, pinching him between the falling weight and those already on the stack. Catlike reflexes propelled me backwards. A more thoughtful approach would have been to lift the weight first, but Mr. Winky was unconscious at that point.

I raced to the bathroom to check the damage. Luckily I didn’t squash anything. Let’s just say Mr. Winky’s fireman’s helmet now has a scuffed rim. The injury was not severe; however, it required ice to prevent any ugly swelling later. Sprinting from the bathroom to the mini fridge, I found one cold pack in the freezer. Back in the bathroom again, I applied the cold pack to the affected area. Mr. Winky was not happy about the injury and even less enthusiastic about the treatment, shrinking away and trying to avoid me. 

Thanks to prompt action on my part, Mr. Winky will probably escape with only a minor scar. My convalescence shouldn’t take very long, but Mr. Winky will have to abstain from all recreational activities, both individual and mixed pairs, for about a week.

I’d hope my unfortunate experience serves as warning to other athletes. When you bring your dear friends to the gym, keep them away from the equipment.
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