It's a good sort of sore, though. A bunch of my friends have been raving about Crossfit for years now, and at the beginning of the summer darwins_fox and I decided we needed to do something about how out of shape we both felt. We decided to get a trainer, as whenever it's just been the two of us, we enable each other terribly; more often than not, the "do you feel like going to the gym today?" question elicits the "meh, not really" response. So we signed on with Clea at Ithaca Crossfit, who, by the way, is a perfect fit for us. And with a third party to hold us responsible, we actually found ourselves hitting the gym three times a week without fail except in cases of illness or travel.
It hit us back. Hard. I knew I was in terrible shape, of course, but I really didn't know exactly how pathetically out of shape I was until I started doing Crossfit and ended every workout laid out on the gym floor gasping for breath. And there were a ton of days when Clea told me "I'm worried you're going to hate me for this," to which I replied "nah, haven't you ever heard of Stockholm Syndrome?" But here's the thing. I liked the way the workouts were structured, I enjoyed learning how to lift free weights way more than I ever thought possible, and sometime over the course of the last three months, I actually started to like working out despite the fact that I am still on the gym floor making sweat angels at the end of every hour and feeling so sore I move like an old man the next day. I have somehow become someone who exercises. It's damned peculiar.
I have not managed to lose any weight per se, as I'm still hovering uncomfortably around 180, but a noticeably higher proportion of that is now muscle. Heck, for the first time in my life, I'm starting to develop pecs. I like it. Now I just have to deal with the flab around the midsection and the cholesterol and things will be peachy.
Sore, but peachy.