Bootcamp Begins

So I did this kind of crazy thing the other day... I agreed to a 21 day body transformation bootcamp. 

Starting next week I'll be going to bootcamp at least 3 times a week in addition to my running to try to kickstart my body into losing some inches (hopefully from my gut) and get myself back into the habit of getting up early and working out. 

Why am I doing this?  Because my friend Julie (the Ouiser to my Clairee in a high school production of Steel Magnolias) has been raving about it.  So when her bootcamp instructor offered this free chance to try it out I jumped at it... and asked Julie to write about it.

ABORTING MY CHEESE BABY: A BOOTY CAMP MIRACLE

Three months ago, if God herself had told me I would soon rise at 6 a.m. five times a week to willingly participate in something called “boot camp,” I probably would’ve thrown a nacho at her.

Sidenote: I like nachos. A lot. The result of this addiction is an oversized cheese baby who’s taken up residence in my belly. I’ve named him Fromage because, well, it sounds classier than Mexi Dip – not to mention less illegal. I’ve been trying to abort Fromage since his conception, but he’s one stubborn son of a chip.


Additional Sidenote: I like boots. I like camping. I even like camping boots. But boot camp? I thought that was where straight people went to get yelled at before losing important appendages. Boot camp? Fromage and I thought, “Non merci.”


Tertiary Sidenote: I don’t really know if God exists, let alone if God is a woman. Either way, in my eyes the ethereal being in question is more of a hermaphrodite.

Perspectives changed when my sister called me up about a Groupon for Fit Body Boot Camp. My first response was for her to PBQ (please be quiet)—boot camp would be worse than listening to a Journey compilation while having sex with that guy in Mask.

Then I began thinking about how I had just turned 30. How I’m single, a chunkie and no longer considered to have a poon, but instead must flaunt a shriveled up poon-no-no to the small class of men who still find 30-year-old women suitable and attractive. I thought about how I’m unhealthy, have about 10 too many weird syndromes and ache like a decrepit Q-Tip.

So I agreed to this boot camp business.

I ain’t gonna lie. The first week totes sucked. I could barely walk. I wanted to eat inanimate objects by 9:30 a.m. My ankles had swollen to the size of that old lady’s in “Don’t Tell Mom the Babysitter’s Dead.” And why for fuck’s sake was everyone so peppy and positive so early in the morning? Weren’t they hungover too?

The next week was better. I at least stopped wanting to throw dumbbells at my trainer (love you Stephanie!)

By the third week, I was Wonder Woman. I felt muscles that had been atrophied since high school. I felt Fromage dying a slow, brilliant death in my belly. I felt powerful. And by week seven, I’d lost 11 pounds and six inches.

I have a ways to go before I reach goal (which I’ve amended from fat college Julie to mid-sized college Julie, thanks to a newfound belief in myself), but now I know it’s possible to get into a pair of skinny jeans that aren’t spun from spandex.

Perhaps most importantly, I no longer want to sit on the couch all night watching TV (though I’ll always make an exception for The Good Wife). It’s like I’m taking some kind of booty camp Adderall. I write, I read, I do things around the house I should have done five years ago. I feel energized. I feel… healthy.

I’ve also regained a part of myself that I lost a long time ago – perhaps when I joined the workforce and my day began to consist of swapping computer chairs for barstools and couch cushions. I’m awake. Enlightened. Confident. Maybe even a little satisfied and happy. Could it be?

Don’t get me wrong, I still have issues – I still harp on things I shouldn’t and overanalyze situations to the point of exhaustion. I’m still impatient. I still drink too much and open my fat mouth when I shouldn’t (that’s one thing that will never be skinny). But I’ve swapped fast food for fresh produce, nachos for veggie-filled tacos and laziness for something closer to motivation.

Those are pretty big steps for this 30 year old poon-no-no. Makes me grateful for legalized abortion.

~

Now we'll see if bootcamp has the same positive impact on my lazy ass.