Let's Get Physical (Physical)

Good Grief. Nay, Holy Shit - I really thought that tonight was my last night with you dear readers. I knew that Boot Camp would be hard but seriously? Seriously. This was nothing like I'd imagined it would be. Maybe that's because I failed to imagine it ahead of time at all - just wrapped up work, drove myself over to Wash Park (I can call it that 'cause I live here now), and sauntered up to the group of overly fit people waiting for Boot Camp to start.

Those uber-healthy peeps shoulda tipped me off. Shoulda sent me packing, home to the couch. They did give me pause, I'm not gonna lie, but I was In It to Win It. Go big or go home. Etc. Etc. Etc. So I stayed, signed my waiver, and got into a circle to stretch.

So far, so good. I like stretching. I can still breathe, generally speaking, while stretching. But then came the running (ok, ok, it was jogging, whatev). Just a quick jog down to the closest stop sign and back. Easy peasy. Unless you haven't moved your butt in 7 (!) years. Unless the only running you've done is to catch the A-train. Strike one for Boot Camp - they start the session with running. Who DOES that?

Then a little warming up - some kicking and punching and windmills. Easy stuff. Elementary PE stuff. Once I caught my breath from the death jog, I was back in the swing... jumping and jacking happily along. I even impressed my own self with a few push ups and one very impressive kept-up-with-the-group-length plank hold.

"OK, we're gonna split into the Low Impact Group and the High Impact Group, grab your water bottles and head out"... Um, yeah, it was practically Sophie's Choice out there, right? Off we went, the Low Impact (Lazy) Group, for what I assumed would be a few more sit ups and toe touches. I mean, hadn't we already run AND done push ups AND squats for-the-love-of-God?!

This is where they dying part begins. Kimmy (I can't remember her real name, prolly from a lack of oxygen to the brain) had a lovely little course set up for us. Tidy rows of cheerful orange cones, evenly and cleverly spaced out for maximum torture. As she explained her sinister plan for the cones, she had us squatting the whole time. That's right, even during the parts where she was telling us what came next, we were already doing some insane thing or another. A sampling of what we were doing while "waiting" our turn for the torture course - standing lunges, squats for 30 seconds at a time while tapping one foot out to the side, plank holds, plank holds while rocking back & forth on our toes, those crazy push ups where you kick your legs out to the sides between each drop (grrrrr), just to name a few. She never ran out of new things to make us do.

I don't know how YOU define waiting but this was all news to me. Thanks bunches for all that creativity, Kimmy.

Eventually it was my turn to tackle the cones. Shuffle sideways through the first set, sprint to the next one, do 10 Burpees, shuffle to the next cone, do 10 push ups, shuffle, jumping jacks, shuffle, sit ups, then back to the group that's "waiting their turn" and it was right back into the effing squats. Aaaaaargh. I couldn't let my mind wander to what the High Impact Group was up to... probably code for pedicures and martinis. Ugh.

OK, I was still relatively lucid at this point, barely, but still. Now we grabbed a partner. Fabulous. My partner was easily in her early sixties, barely moving, and still making me look like an asshole. For 60 seconds at a stretch, Kimmy had one of us running or lunging (please note -- I first typed that as Lunching -- telling, no?) or running backward or high stepping or whatever the hell other crazy way to run back & forth between cones while the other one of us was on the ground doing leg lifts or sit ups or push ups. Again, the partner who was "waiting" for their turn didn't exactly get a vacation, albeit they did get to be on the ground in one way or another. For my part, my ground time was spent mostly gasping for air and trying not to barf on my first day. Occasionally Kimmy would ask "How you doing Cari" to which I would cheerfully respond, "Awesome! Never Better!!!!!!!" Liar.

I'm so traumatized by what came next that I can't even outline it for you. Suffice it to say it was 30 seconds of madness involving running/lunging (I did it again!)/kicking spliced with 30 seconds of some sort of on-the-ground insanity involving levitating in some fashion with nothing but the waning strength of your wobbly, mutinous arms to help keep you upright. I said to my aged partner that I was sure she was going to be the last person ever to see me alive... she shrugged it off and proceeded to lap me in the walking lunges. As a group we did 8 variations on this theme before finally collapsing at one end of those fucking orange cones and then crawling to our water bottles for some relief.

"OK, let's head back over." Naturally Kimmy meant "Let's jog back over" but at this point I was counting the many tiny & adorable birds that were circling in my vision so I walked, slowly, back to where the group was gathering for some "oblique work", sucking the life out of my water bottle the whole way and willing myself not to pass out. Even my 60+ partner found the strength to leave me behind and jog/limp back over to the group. Thanks a lot. Some partnership. She'll get hers. She'll get it when I expose that she was wearing a diaper - I know this because I had the pleasure of holding her ankles and looking up her shorts for a few minutes of kicking my legs up into the air while she pushed them back down. 60+, incontinent, and still breathing. Bitch.

A few more impossible moments involving defying gravity and "engaging our core" and the end was finally in sight. We circled up and stretched while the show offs talked about their bike ride through Moab this weekend. The rest of us touched our toes in silence. I can only assume that the others were also praying for it all to be over soon.

I only seriously considered walking away 12 times. I was only on the verge of tears twice. I promise you that I mean it when I say that I thought I was going to fall over/pass out/barf/die no less than 23 times in that one hour, but I'm glad that I stuck it out and am absolutely thrilled that I lived to tell the tale.

Kimmy and I walked toward the cars together. I promised her that I'd be back. She congratulated me on showing up. And then she jogged off into the sunset -- clearly energized by her workout and yet wanting more. Not wiped out nor exhausted nor unsure if she was steady enough to drive home like someone who'll remain nameless. As I fumbled the keys with my unsteady hands and thanked Evan for his comfy, comfy seats and delightful air conditioning, I decided not to hate Kimmy for it. She was good to me today after all. Just the right balance of "you're doin' great" and yet graciously looking away when I was flailing and quitting and trying not to die. If I can walk tomorrow I'll go back. If not... well, then I'm calling in sore to work and they're just gonna have to be OK with that.

The last time I did anything even remotely like exercise. Honolulu Marathon.

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