catheroominations

I signed up for Bootcamp. Not the military type, the exercise type. For three weeks, five days a week, I will rise at 5:30 am, brave the cold, damp air, and join other bootcamp cadets (read: crazy people) for an hour of torture exercise. And I will arrive on time each day because if I do not, it’s 20 burpies for me. If you don’t know what burpies are, they’re somewhat like push-ups on steroids. And I loathe burpies. So I will not be late.

You may be wondering why am I doing this. You may think I’m a loon for leaving my nice cozy bed before the sun rises and voluntarily participating in cardiovascular exercise and strength training for an hour a day. Couldn’t I just accept the extra pounds that reside on my frame? Learn to embrace my tone-lacking body parts? Couldn’t I just (gasp!) DIET?

No. I need someone to kick my ass or I won’t exercise. I need to be worked. Hard. I want to sweat. I want to be sore the next day, to feel that I’ve done something good for my body. I crave that runner’s high I haven’t experienced in much too long. So these Bootcamp instructors can yell at me. I will do what they say. They can shove my face in the mud and force me to do ten more push-ups, and I will do it. And I will love it. Love it, I tell you!

You see, there’s this dress I bought. It’s a rather expensive dress to wear on a very special day and I want to look hot in it. That means rippling rhombs, tremendous traps, and luscious lats. It means tight triceps and bulging biceps. And I want a big thick football player neck. Add a tiara and you’ve got one slammin’ bride-babe, no?