Yesterday, I started my first workout of a three-week bootcamp. For three weeks, I am going to be doing these crazy intense workouts and eating like a squirrel.
Please notice the extreme excitement in my voice.
(Pssst… there is no excitement in my voice.)
I let my friend, Danielle, convince me to not only participate in this torture, but to PAY for this torture. And then Danielle went out of town for the first two sessions, so I showed up yesterday to the first work out BY MYSELF. She’s a good friend. If you happen to see her on the streets, kick her in the shins for me.
So, I dragged myself out of bed at some ungodly hour yesterday, squeezed myself into workout pants that I haven’t worn in over a year, and headed up to the parking lot where this bootcamp meets. And, surprisingly, it was pretty awesome. The people there were so stinking nice! Like, COMMUNE nice. I wondered if they were going to kidnap me. Later, I realized they have to be nice to first-timers because they are about to torture them and if they are nice, the first-timers will never see it coming.
We start the actual work out, and I’m doing pretty good. Actually, I’m doing GREAT. I am keeping up and feeling good. I start to think, “I’m going to survive!”
What a stupid thought.
Ten minutes into the workout, the fitness instructor, David, calls all the newbies to the front of the group to complete a fitness test. They do them on your first day and on your last to see how far you have come. And even though we were in the front of the group, everyone else was working out pretty intensely, so it didn’t feel like I had an audience. I still felt confident. “I can do this!” I said to myself.
Another stupid thought.
The first part of the fitness test was to see how many burpees you can do in two minutes. Now, I did not know what a burpee was. Do you? If you’re really interested, Google it, but I’ll save you the mystery – it’s a method of torture which I am almost positive is against international law according to the United Nations. But because I was not familiar with them, I thought, “How bad than this be?”
I was full of stupid thoughts.
So, I start burpee-ing. And I’m not doing terrible. Until burpee #8. And then I notice, I can’t really jump my legs back into the push up as well as I was before. By burpee #13, I had gotten myself down into a position on the floor (which is not part of a burpee, in case you didn’t know) and was writhing around, trying to get my legs to move. But I’m pretty sure they flicked me off. I managed to somehow complete 17 “burpees.” And by “burpee” I mean I moved around on the floor and counted to 17.
Finally, David the Torturist, called time and I stopped rolling around on the ground. But when I stopped moving, I instantly felt nauseous. Like, REALLY nauseous. I looked around to see how everyone else was doing because, surely, we were all in this together. But those jerks looked perky and maybe just a little bit winded. Screw those guys. I laid back on my mat. HUGE MISTAKE.
My stomach started heaving and I knew I was about to get sick. I jumped up, which was an act of God in itself because my legs were completely useless at this point, and ran to the back of the area where we were working out and threw up in a trash can.
I’ll pause here so that you can let that process.
I. THREW. UP. IN. A. WORKOUT. CLASS.
In front of strangers! Who are all fit and healthy! I THREW UP, PEOPLE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
And I know I was on the verge of death because I didn’t even care. I just stood up, stared back at the class of people staring at me, wiped my mouth, and said, “PUKE AND RALLY!”
I went back and finished my workout like a BOSS. Well, not so much like a boss. In fact, I came in last for everything we did. Every activity we did that morning, I came in last place. And in their commune kindness, the entire class cheered for me, like I was the fat kid finishing the race. Screw those guys. I wanted them all to drop dead.
I’ve seen my toddler and preschool aged children puke and rally and it is sight to behold. They can pretty much puke while playing and never miss a beat.
In my 20’s puke and rally took place in bars. Drank too much, puked it up in a bar bathroom with all your friends waiting outside, and when you finally came back out again, the crowd goes up into cheers and you’re back at the bar again.
But in your 30’s puke and rally is, apparently, a very different concept. You push yourself until you think you might die. Puke. And then go push yourself some more. ‘
I was under the impression we got WISER as we got older, but now I’m not so sure. I think I was on to something in my 20’s.
My next workout is tomorrow. Pray for my legs.