Never once aggravating my older brother or forgetting to fulfill my weekly duty of emptying the dishwasher, I’ve been a good girl the entire year. Weeks ago, my list had been formed in deliberate meticulousness, void of misspelled words and erase marks, completely intended to fulfill my every want, need, and desire. The lights outlining the perimeter of our property, our house, and our tree are shining. A plate of double chocolate chip cookies and a glass of ice cold milk are on the table in close proximity to the tree. The entire scene is glorious. Eventually, I make my way into bed. I lay there content, excited, and in full anticipation, imagining Santa flying across the world and eventually making his way into my home. I take the time to quiet my mind and picture him carefully making an entrance. He, with care, precisely places each and every present underneath the tree. He smells the amazing scent of freshly baked cookies, and without hesitation, he satisfies his craving until not even a crumb remains. Before I have the chance to picture Christmas day—opening my presents, initiating the assembly process, playing for hours upon hours, I fall fast asleep.

What is synonymous with the feelings and memories Christmas Eve put forth at the age of eight?

Answer: ˙ʇsɐlq ɐ ǝɹoɟǝq ʇɥƃıu ǝɥʇ ˙ɐ˙ʞ˙ɐ ǝsınɹɔ ʞǝǝʍ-oʍʇ ɐ ɟo ʎɐp ʇsɐl ǝɥʇ

I’m not talking about a cruise where you traveled to the Caribbean Islands, scuba-dived, and gorged yourself at countless buffets. I’m talking about the cruise period you took—the one where you trained with minimal intensity and/or effort, perhaps not stepping foot inside a training facility within a two-week period. I’m talking about the amount of time you abandoned the weights to spur recovery and elicit mental clarity.

I experience Christmas Eve approximately every 10 weeks...

The moment has come, and it’s the night to prepare for the first day back. Just as I prepped for Santa at the age of eight, setting the groundwork to get back into training-mode is essential. The procedure starts off by checking the week’s lifting protocol and writing its content into my log book. Its focus is complete—with blood flow, pumping and flexing of the muscle(s), driving more blood into the targeted muscle(s), bouts of to-complete-failure-and-beyond sets for absolute annihilation, and explosiveness.

Food for the week has been shopped for and is cooked. I can’t help but contemplate how adding carbohydrates back into my macro-nutrient mix will jolt my carb–sensitized/depleted system.

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To continue the preparation, and appearing to be a mad chemist in the process, I create my pre-, intra-, and post-lifting shakes. Having felt neglected for the past two weeks, my pants and floor resume their role of collecting the numerous white powders: Citrulline Malate, L-Tyrosine, Acetyl L-Carnitine, Beta-alinine, Creatine, Karboload...the works. My Puma training bag becomes organized—belt secured in its coil; wrist wraps, check; bands, check; iPod, check; Pressfield’s The War of Art, check; chapstick, check; the pre-/intra-/post-shakes, check; log book and pen, YES!

Since tomorrow is leg day, I lay out my faded and holed Ultimate Nutrition t-shirt, Nike compression shorts and pants, my "L" and "R" labeled Nike socks, a sports bra, my TRAIN zip up hoodie, my green Inov’s, and my wrist watch.

I then set my alarm clock, enabling myself to sleep a solid eight hours. I lay in bed with feelings of expectancy and exhilaration, focused on pure determination in executing perfect form, surpassing my previous pain thresholds, and exerting explosiveness. Despite my mind and heart racing, my body is relaxed. A bi-week of acupuncture, cupping, deep tissue massage, and an adjustment to the C-1 vertebrae leaves it feeling soothed, attended to, and free of stress.

Falling fast asleep, I dream of a savage beast with no outlet to salvage herself. She’s exploding, soaked in self-loathing and mourning until...

Diiiiiiiiing!

“Christmas day” has arrived.