Does boot camp mean no more pubs?

I am not a typical ‘boot camp’ kind of person. I do not respond well to being shouted at; I do not like to fail and my vacillating commitment level to exercise varies somewhere between stubborn refusal and fearful avoidance. Still, I knew no one would expect me to do it so this grim assumption combined with the realisation that my clothes were becoming rather too snug in rather too many places aided my resolve. After a procrastination filled ‘sleep’, arise I did, and join I did, the already shadow boxing or running on the spot friends and colleagues in the gym.

Of course, I did have brand spanking new trainers which I proudly and inappropriately passed around the table at a brunch the day before, inadvertently quashing my ‘ooh I don’t own the right equipment’ excuse. The weight of the ‘I’m too busy’ excuse was dwindling as my waistline was thickening. Would I stop eating and drinking as existing habits currently dictate? Unlikely. Would I at least stop eating Snickers bars for breakfast at the weekend? I confess, I would try. Would I moan, grunt, sweat, swear and growl? Yep! And would I do it all in my beautiful new trainers and patched up running leggings (a hole having been repaired with a cross stitch of ribbon after the flying over the handle bars of my bicycle incident nearly a year ago. Really, you can’t blame me for fearing exercise when my two previous attempts have left me either with a broken foot or laying splayed across the pavement having been vaulted over my bicycle handlebars)? It would seem so.

Walking was a problem for at least three days post session one. As was lowering myself onto the toilet or stepping down the two tiny steps outside my apartment. So too, was the psychological battle that commenced when I knew I was doing things wrong. Who would have thought that exercise would be something you could get so very wrong. Lunging, for example. It’s not simply a case of taking a long low step forward. Oh no; my balance, strength and direction would need to be correctly aligned in order for me to avoid injury as well as benefit from any muscular development. I was willingly albeit timidly stepping into a situation where I would look ridiculous, feel entirely stupid, and I would do it all in lycra – very much not my cup of tea, I assure you.

Now despite the amusement certain colleagues took in dropping things on the floor when they knew I couldn’t bend to pick them up, or the tiny little shove that would send my punished body into the wall due to my inability to engage muscles necessary for balancing after the afore mentioned shove. And despite those same colleagues guffawing loudly if the necessity to walk bow legged and at any speed presented itself, I actually did it. And, do you know what? I was fairly proud of myself. I was the weakest by far. I was uncoordinated, very red and rather more bouncy than athletic in the star jumps. I was a little bit rude and a tad moody (yes, I know) but I managed a few sessions, even enjoying a little dance between exercises.

Careful consideration a month after starting boot camp has left me wondering whether it takes a very special kind of person to dedicate themselves to exercise. My commitment has dwindled despite my evident enjoyment and the positive results (even after a horrifyingly prompt reversal of positive results following a fun filled Easter). Yet still I waiver. Still I fear injury; still I find a new and rather enjoyable morning routine involving menu variation and reading; still I reassure myself that by walking 15 minutes five times a week, I am exercising. I wonder what flaw it is that prevents me from committing to exercise when I seem so keen to discuss the need for it.  As I ponder this troubling conundrum, carefully sashaying away from the frequent appearance of the word ‘lazy’ into the forefront of my mind, I realise something very important: if I do not get back to boot camp, I will have to go shopping. Well, when this little train of thought emerges and I am drawn to memories of me crashing through crowds, squeezing into small clothes in small changing rooms and queuing in a place where queues either mean uncomfortable bunches of foot treading purchasers or violent places of dagger drawn looks and poised elbows, I might chance the drill sergeant shouting ‘Get your butt down, Kerry!’ during The Plank or ‘Get those knees off the floor!’ during push-ups. Maybe I’ll make a little deal with myself though and do two of the three a week – I am very busy after all!