Kettlebells are of the Devil

Kettlebells. They look so cute. But they are hiding a deviousness straight from the pit of hell. I think the gravity of the earth increase ten fold for kettlebells. You see those cute little round things sitting on a shelf and you think, "I'll work with those. They aren't as intimidating as the barbells." Then you pick it up, walk to the middle of the exercise floor, and realize you've left your arm dangling from the bell still in the rack against the wall, fingers twitching on the handle.

Ok, maybe it's not quite that bad. But when Michael starts pulling out different sizes of kettlebells, I know I'm going to walk out of the gym with the backs of my hands dragging on the ground.

The Clean and Press really points out how weak my left arm is. It's basically clean and my right arm goes up and my left arm keeps the demonbell at my shoulder like a demonic parrot squawking, "Epic Fail! Epic Fail!"

Then there's the Figure 8. You start with the demonball about chin level, then you swing it with one arm through your legs, catching it with the other arm, and bringing it back to chin level. "The momentum will help carry it up." Momentum? What momentum?! I'm afraid I'll bash my shins! And my other hand? Well, let's just say there have been smoother exchanges in customs at the North Korean border.

The halo. Oh the halo. Such a misnomer for the demonbell. I hold it at eye level by its demon horns and move it around my head keeping it the same level. I know that I'm going to knock myself unconscious one day. Busted shin and knocked out cold. Those are my fears with those demonbells.

But despite all of my whining, they are doing their job. I'm actually lifting them over my head now with both arms. I still don't have that Figure 8 down yet. Maybe I can pass the bruises off as tie-dyed knee socks.