Adventure Boot Camp and McDonald’s go head to head …..

Adventure-Boot-Camp-for-Women

Adventure Boot Camp is 4 weeks of hell.

There is not one moment of joy.  I get really excited when I get asked to grab my yoga mat and the sun has gone down, because I live in hope that I will be doing final stretches and then stand around and clap like a seal, and be allowed to go home.

I am the oldest and fattest person there.  I am last in every possible activity.

This is not a cry for help or affirmation, it is a fact.

There are girls that laugh and giggle throughout – meanwhile I am attempting to hold my bladder in and not shit in my pants.  I am wearing lycra and even in my fairly elementary understanding of sport’s wear I realise that a large lump of poop in my pants will be noticed.

It is a difficult hour – I swear and curse a great deal.  I am amazed I have an apron for a stomach that often tends to lie against my thighs —- I wish to die right there and then.

I never walk away happy.  I limp away in relief that it is over.

The endorphins do not know how to find me.  Possibly I need to do one of those location updates on my phone, maybe they would find me then.

I wore a Simple Minds t-shirt last night – concert in Cape Town 1995 – that I think was older than most girls there.  1995, they were embryos, and I was considered underweight.

I miss those days.

It is all tragic, and sad …. and makes me long for my quiet time eating a McDonalds McMuffin, my large chips and large Coke Zero.  See the problem?

Tell me again how much a gastric bypass costs … and what you need to do to qualify?

Pop over to Adventure Boot Camp and {like} the image, I think I win something.

It might be lipo-suction, and a free session at plastic surgeon …. or a stomach pump …… or a head band ….. right now I would settle for home made pasta and about 27 liters of wine.  I am too exhausted to pay attention.

True story.

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The humiliation that is Adventure Boot Camp …

Third week in, and I am loving it about as much as I do a waxing session or a pap smear.  If they could find a way to combine them, would not even hint at how much I loath my Adventure Boot Camp sessions.

At least a pap smear takes about 4 minutes, and really when it is over, you sort of look back and go “well that was not that bad, see you in 1 or 3 years.”

I am officially the “fat chick” at boot camp.  The fat old chick.

If my self-esteem could take any more of a dent, I might need to up my Seroquel.

The slowest out of EVE.RY. fuck.n one!  I am the one who is last.  I am usually 40% of the way through the routine when everyone is finished and starting from the beginning.

The trainer now knows my name.  And screams it across the field.

It is one of those occasions when you do not want to be noticed.

You know when you have to run with your rolled up yoga mat above your head, whilst going up-and-down with your arms to the fence and back again?  Just like that.  I eventually just left the mat behind. Really no one can scream at me enough to do push ups with a mat whilst I am running. Not even my mom!

I am so exhausted, and so unfit that I want to cry.

I am waiting on the endorphins that make me feel happy.  It is now 23h16 and still no endorphins,  I don’t think they are coming tonight.

It is okay to cry at Adventure Boot Camp because no one really notices.  Your breathing is coming in short bursts anyway, and you are sort of lying on the floor wondering when it was that life got this bad …  and sweating so much, that a few more bits of moisture on your face is a bit of a non-issue.

So of course you can cry, no one realises and no one cares.

It is only the third week in, and I am officially stuffed.  Buggered.  Fucked. The slowest chick there.

I regret every McDonalds breakfast. I regret every “buy large and save more” bag of Chuckles.

I do not regret the wine.  I think about the large glass I am going to pour as soon as I get home. I have decided to stop eating and get all my calorie intake from a few glasses of wine.  Technically it will be my 5 servings of fruit and vegetables per day.  Right?

Holy Mother of Mary, this getting old and trying very hard to not get any fatter, and hope that maybe, just maybe I can get by a month without my daughter asking me if I am pregnant ….. excuse me whilst I lie on the field and throw up.

Yay for Adventure Boot Camp …. said no one ever!

Let me count the ways I hate Adventure Boot Camp

I am not sure if it was the wine talking, or my inability to say “no” to things on line after 23h00 – but somewhere in this I decided to register for another not-really-fun Adventure Boot Camp.

I have done this before, so am fully aware how much TIK you must be on to register and attend one of these things.

The class starts this evening, so registering the night before, sort of gives you an idea of how committed I was to this whole “let’s get fit thing.”  I was secretly hoping to be denied access to their website.  Clearly their firewall needs some attention.

The weather today in Cape Town was grim. Rainy, cold and miserable.  Perfect “lie on the couch in front of a gas heater with a large glass of wine” weather.

There was ABSOLUTE nothing in today that made me WANT to put on lycra, my now far too small exercise pants, and my just too short exercise shirt and run around a field whilst being screamed at.

I am not even mildly into S&M.  So you can understand that I really do not get off on someone screaming at me – and me being in pain.

What it makes me want to do is swear like a pirate, and go home to drink a large glass of wine.

Tonight I went along to Adventure Boot Camp.

I had already told myself that I might as well “start tomorrow” but I knew that if I did not go TODAY, it would be pretty much tickets for tomorrow and every day that follows.

But I went.  I really would love to tell you how much fun it was, and how many friends I made.  Nada on both of those.

I did however eye out who were clearly the girls with way too much energy, no fat rolls, and an ability to laugh and giggle all the way through the exercises that made me pee in my pants a bit.

I have decided not to like them at all.  It is also quite easy to see who they are because they wear headbands.  I do not think I have ever been hot enough to wear a headband.

But maybe Jane Fonda is back in, and I just did not realise.

Either way, I am pretty sure I am going to have difficulty squatting on the toilet tomorrow. I may pop around to Cape Union Mart and see if they have one of those stand-and-pee-for-ladies things.

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go-girl

Elegant no.  Functional yes!

I went back to Run/Walk for Life today …..

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I started Run/Walk for Life in October.

My theory is that running is great exercise, does not really require any organisation to get it going, and is something you can do pretty much anywhere and at any time.

I have a firmly held belief that “I can’t run.”

Back in 2010 I contacted a running coach, and he diligently worked with me to “teach me to run.”

I realise for people who “just run” that the idea of it being a skill that needs to be taught is a foreign idea, but I needed to be taught to run.

I had been doing Adventure Boot Camp in 2009 and 2010 and, it has lots of bits where you need to run.  Not far, but you need to run.  I found that I was getting stronger and fitter at Adventure Boot Camp, but I still could not run any distance easily.

I breathed and looked like I was on the verge of a heart attack or at the very least in the throes of an epileptic attack.

Runner coach started me running the distance between 2 light posts.  I thought I was going to die.  I was breathing so hard after that, that it took about 20 minutes for me to return to normal breathing.  Not a great start!

Runner coach guy worked with me and after 2 months I was able to run for about 35 minutes – which for me was unheard of.  I can’t tell you how proud of was of myself!!  We worked together two evenings a week, and we started slowly run for 1 minutes, walk for 20 minutes, run for 1 minute, walk for 20 minutes – and then slowly built on that until we got to a point where I was actually doing more running in the hour than walking!!

I was sure I was never going to run – and even though he said : “I have never met anyone who cannot run.  I have met many people who think they cannot run!”  I thought that I would be the person to change his outlook or at the very least his catch phrase.

I was still not a confident runner as each time I started to run I would tell myself  “you know, you can’t run, you know that, right?”

Even as I am busy running the voice in my head would say “okay, I see here that you are running, but best  you do not believe it, you may be running, but you know you can’t run — so this is just a fluke —– YOU CAN’T RUN!”

I know people say that running is a mental thing – cheese and rice, but can the mentally unhinged do it?

Back in 2010 Kennith entered me into the Two Oceans Marathon.

That was the equivalent of shooting me in the knee.

I  convinced myself  I could not run any distance, I would never be able to train to run any sort of event/race.

Instead of spurring me on to train, it spurred me on to sit on the couch, take off my shoes and further convince myself that I COULD NOT RUN.  I didn’t run for about a year after that.

October last year I joined and started Run/Walk for Life.  The programme is geared for everyone whether you are 10 or 80 years old.  I decided to slot in and stick with what ever they suggested I should do, and go with the flow.

I figured they must know what they are doing.  I like the idea of an organised and committed time to do something, but I like to work on my own within that range.  I like and need to spend time in my head – and exercise for me is a really a “head” thing, and I do not enjoy doing it as a group.

Run/Walk for Life felt I was not ready for road work – they had me walk around a field, and walk around a field and walk around a field.

Just at the point where I thought I had done my head in with walking around a field, the instructor suggested I start running a bit – short bits – maybe 100 metres, then walk again.  Still around the field.

Worked well – all very controlled.  I do about 40 minutes of walking interspersed with running.  I run really slowly, more of a shuffle – but my breathing is controlled. I walk, and then run when I feel I am ready, and as far as I think I can/should go – some days I push myself and play little mental “can you make it to the orange beacon” games.

I was on holiday and have not been to Run/Walk for Life since the first week of December.  I was meant to go last week, but I convinced myself of all sorts of reasons why not to.

This morning I was committed to go.  [Even though I took my book along thinking I would bail, and end up eating McDonalds breakfast in my car with my book.]

I went.  I got out of my car and I was sent walking on the field.  At a certain point I thought, okay, I will just run for 100 meters  and then carry on walking.

I knew it was going to be hard, as I just felt so “flahhhhhh” and just “gahhhhhhhh” – all the things you feel after a holiday of much lying around and too much eating.

The idea of running/walking held very little in the way of anything attractive this morning.

I put my earphones in, listened to Depeche Mode and Johnny Cash and did my 40 minutes of redemption.

I ran much more than I thought I would be able to.  I ran slowly, but I could keep my breathing more or less normal.

I did not throw up once on the field, and for that I am grateful!

When I was finished, I was sweating to the point where my back was one slick of sweat.   I did not realise I could sweat that much.  My sweat was sweating.  My face was the colour of beetroot, and not the attractive kind.  But, I was proud of myself this morning that I high-fived myself in the car.

Someone suggested this morning, I enter and commit to a 5km race now – I can already hear my voices convincing me otherwise.

Changing Rooms and Fat Mirrors …..

I am not a fan of exercise.  I am not a fan of diets.  I am what ever the opposite is of a fan.

I am a fan of inactivity, wine drinking, chocolate eating and time reading my book.

Unfortunately none of the things I enjoy contribute to weight loss.  They all however aid the inevitable spread of my arse and thighs, and also add to the image I see of my stomach resting on my upper thighs when I go to the toilet.

I should really spare you that image, but my bathroom has a wall length mirror, so the image is reflected back to me in high density detail every morning and night.  So, what ever you are picturing is not as bad as what I need to endure.

The most alarming way to scare yourself in to “doing something” is to pop along to a retail store, pick out a few things, then go into one of their change rooms and shed all your clothes and stand there in your underwear and gaze at your reflection.

If you are lucky (like me) you will be wearing one of your bras that do not fit well, so it will eat red marks into your shoulders.   The cup will not fit, and your breasts will be squished into an unusual shape not unlike those made by magicians at children’s parties who make balloon animals.  None of it attractive, all of it on the “this blows” scale.

There I stand in my badly fitting bra, my knickers (neither of which match, both of which should have been thrown away months ago).  My granny pants will undoubtedly  cling in the wrong place.  Because the planet likes balance, hang loose in all the wrong place, and in no way be complementary.

Above my head is a flickering light which does a super job of making my white flabby skin, appear a sickly yellow, blobby, blotchy, with hills and dales of cellulite.  My thighs look like something that comes out of an old custard container circa 1986.

I have back fat.  I have front fat.  My stomach sort of hangs over my bikini area.  The entire image is bad.  Oh so very bad.  OMG how did this happen BAD.  If I was feeling a semblance of happiness thinking that retail therapy was going to pep me up, it all disappears in the mist that is the retail changing rooms.

Whilst my eyeballs are being assaulted by the vision of me, in three variations —  I need to lean over and try on a pair of jeans or a shirt.

They never fit, because I suffer from the symptoms of delusion, which include always-taking-sizes-to-the-change-room-I-know-won’t-fit-but-am-too-mortfied-to-take-the-bigger-and-more-correct-size.  All of this adds up to a slightly less than satisfactory retail experience.

I usually march out the store, and go and treat myself to a large piece of cake somewhere.  It is difficult to be unhappy when you are gorging on chocolate cake!  Guilt ridden after, but at the time, exquisite joy.

Sometimes I just eat the cake, and do not bother even going to the store.

I blame my issues on the buyers and their ridiculous size curves, the horrific design of the change rooms, and also the “skinny jean” fad that appears to have crept in to everything.

Notice I do not blame my fat arse for lying on the couch and eating cake, nope I am a victim over here.

That being said, and one too many changing room experiences later, I decided to get off the couch and go and run around a field at 6am.

In the morning.  During Winter.

I have made the renewed acquaintance of Adventure Boot Camp.

It is uneasy relationship.  We both realise the relationship is one filled with anger and loathing (from my side) – I think from ABC’s side it is filled with unrequited love and devotion.

I have mentally committed to go three times a week, so that sees Monday, Wednesday and Friday with me squeezing my rather large rear into a pair of clingy lycra pants, and meeting up with a few other demented people as we spend an hour being subjected to all sorts of torture.

I have to leave home at about 05h40 to get there in time. I do not play well with others in the morning, so I am sulky and morose the entire time.  I am not really in line to win the “most bubbly” camper.

Trust me I am not filled with the joy of endorphins at any time.  Before.  During.  Nor after.

This is week 2.  I gave up on my “almost standard” McDonald’s egg mcmuffin and sausage breakfast this morning, and opted instead for a deliciou,s yet strangely less satisfying, Herbalife Chocolate Shake.

Because I had eaten an entire bag of Chuckles yesterday, and two hefty chunks of chocolate cake, I thought I would do an hour run/walk/shuffle in addition once I dropped the kids at school – a sort of penance for my calorie-gorging behaviour.

I sit here with my hamstring trying to leave my body via my groin.  I am in all sorts of pain and all I can keep thinking is how I can get out of this on Wednesday.

This morning a mom at Isabelle’s school said “I really admire you that you have time to go to gym … ”

Part of me was elated that for some reason she managed to get the image of an “active person” from my attire, and the other part of me wanted to explain the fact that I had been up since before the sparrow farted to pull this little number off, but I decided to opt for smiling and nodding.

Of motivation and mantras….

I really do not enjoy going to Adventure Boot Camp.  I really can’t even fake interest – Kennith can vouch for that.

But I drag myself literally kicking and whining to boot camp at least three times a week. Okay, sometimes only twice.

I was busy driving there last night and wondered to myself how I could explain to anyone how I – the most unmotivated person with regards to exercise – stays motivated enough to go to ABC, when I really do not enjoy it.  Then it came to me – like a little high pitched voice out of the darkness.

Georgia!

It happened like this.

I am lying semi-asleep on my left side, with the duvet sort of pulled haphazardly over my body.  I have a nightshirt on that has ridden up a bit – as does tend to happen as one sleeps.  I am not trying to start a cheap sex blog here, I am merely trying to assist you to picture the scene from the safety of your home.

So there I am lying, hoping for a few more minutes of sleep.  I know the kids are moving around the house.  I really do not know why people think there is a pitter-patter of little feet in a house with kids, it is a more like the sound of a stampede 0f wildebeest.  Any-the-how, I digress.

So there I lie, with just the right amount of saliva dribbling out of the corner of my mouth.  <Too much and it wets the pillow and wakes you up, just enough moistens your lips so they do not go all dry and crispy when you first yawn.>

I hear the distinct whisper of Georgia standing behind me.

Georgia: “Hello mommy” <I can hear her smiling – she is such a happy little thing.>

Me – substituting until real mommy arrives: “Hello my love ….”

Georgia: “Are you sleeping mommy?”

Me: “Not so much sweetie…”

Georgia: “Mommy when I am big, will I be as big as you?”

Me: “errr, I think so sweetie, you are already such a big girl …… please go and watch tv with your brother like a big girl.”

Georgia: ” Mommy…”

Me: “Yes Georgia bear….”

Georgia: “When I am big, will I have a big bum like you?”

And  now I have a mantra forAdventure Boot Camp …