This post is not crafty. It's a diary I'll be keeping for the next few weeks.
So I signed up to a three week bootcamp. Why? Well in the comfort of the office at my desk I thought it was probably a good idea, I envisaged a fit, ab-weilding, toned Alice. "That would be quite good" I thought.
A bit of background: I don't exercise. It's almost a rule. Yoga doesn't count as that's a lifestyle that gives me strength of mind and body. Not fitness. I haven't been fit for around 10 years. I consider running something that your body is capable of if you are being chased and your 'flight' mechanisms kick in. Cardio is a dirty word. Weights? Pfft, why would I want to lift something heavy when I could lift something light? I enjoy food yet I'm not grossly overweight or anything. I'm happy with my body but I'm definitely not what you would describe as 'fit'.
It's windy. Very windy. I struggle to hear the 'Yelly man' as he asks if anyone minds if he gets up in their face and screams at you. I want to raise my hand.
Lets stand in a line and punch. This is ok, I can punch. You don't put your thumb in your fist, you keep you knuckles straight. This is great. Uppercut, punchy, uppercut, punchy. Jog a little. It all sounds great. I can feel my face gently starting to redden.
We're breaking into groups. We have heard that the lady is nice and doesn't yell so we try to get in her group. Turns out we rotate anyway so that was pointless. Start in the 'exercise' group. Burpies, Star Jumps, Press Ups.
My 'burpies' are little more than 'bad breath' after two. The man yells we're doing a good job and to keep it up. He's talking to me I think. I keep it up. My stomach sinks to the ground in press ups. I wonder if I can get away with this? I'll just raise my head up and down? Whistle.
We're with the 'nice lady'. The cow makes us sprint. and jog. and sprint and jog. and sprint and jog. I want to vomit. This is ridiculous. Oh no, I'm falling behind the pack. I stop to pretend to pull up my pants so I can get a breather. Sprint, jog, sprint,jog, where is that bloody whistle??!
Boxing, get the pads on (wise choice here as this means I can stand still and take the hits, get my breath back). I make jokes as I squint through the sweat. My turn to box. Punchy punchy, this is the best bit.
Back to the burpies. He says you can squat if you're starting to tire. I am starting to tire. I squat. I jump while unenthusiastically throwing my hands around in an attempt at star jumps. This is really starting to get ridiculous. Why are we here? How long has this been going on? I don't want to sprint again. What will happen if I vomit. HOW IS THAT WOMAN SMILING? There are very 'fit' people here. They actually sprint.
40 mins down (thank god!) and we are into sit ups and press ups and other variations with ridiculous names like 'crunchie's'. I will be sick. My long-dormant muscles are very shocked at their sudden requirement to move. The clouds are coming over. There are spits of rain. They evaporate immediately when touching my firey red face.
It's over. I'm so glad. My stomach is not happy. I feel ill. I'm glad that I didn't collapse. I'm terrified that they said each day will get harder.
Why did I park so far away? My poor legs. Get me home.