When I aged to Middling, God bequeathed my form with scaffolding, an onboard shelving system running the length of my sides between ribs and butt that was not drawn into the original blueprint.
It… appeared. Window washers could stand upon these flesh brackets for easy reach.
It’s not pretty and it’s certainly unwelcome.
Thus, do I Boot Camp. Bootcamping is difficult, exhausting, humbling, and sad, but because I want to disband the mounds of newly formed flesh from off my person — like lichen on a rock, it’s stuck — I endure outdoor workouts in late-fall temps to be social and allow a trainer to help me heave heavy things while squatting and lunging and all other forms of ignominious behavior for neighbors to see as they drive by because I want to throw the extra luggage overboard. Lost and never found again, please, because I didn’t check this baggage, it was abandoned upon my person and I want to discard it like last decade’s newspaper.
On the other hand, the Eat part of the plan, I cook, with so much protein that the cattle industry sent me a Christmas card. Beef out the wazoo because I am ignoring all the documentaries I’ve seen videographing reasons I should eschew all meat products.
Trainer says the protein will aid in ridding the carbs that have glued the shelving unit firmly in place for far too long.
And eggs! My diet consists of many too many chicken leavings.
High protein, big sweats, tons of cursing, three days a week. I’ve made a life of this four weeks, and Thanksgiving — the day in which we eat en masse, eyes averted, no judgment — was thrown into the mix, through unfortunate timing.
And I’ve been good, mostly. Perhaps a bauble here and there, but overall, not bad. I drank the requisite 72 ounces of water daily, cooked the menu items in assigned order, cleaned enough cookware to stock an Applebee’s, and then came the fateful evening when the trainer ordered, “Twenty-five jumping jacks, ladies!”
Well. As a Middlin’, I can EITHER drink the 72 ounces, OR I can jump 25 jacks. As Depends were not installed, I had a choice to make.
I chose mutiny and a sudden need to grab tissues from my car, High winds, chilly air, need for avoidance equals Trifecta.
When it came down to it, I caved. “Got a [fake] text from my son, haha,” Point to the fake phone in my hand. “Imagine the timing, so unfortunate, haha, gotta go!” Grabbed all accoutrements of activity and bolted.
Yet, I’m going to attend another class tonight.
What is this pull from a Boot Camp train that’s run me over, cleaved me in two, and left my upper half crawling the ground in search of low-lying M&Ms?