If you woke up this morning looking for an interesting way to torture yourself into shape, I've got you covered. Simply check out a boot camp in your area. These classes are definitely not for the faint of heart or the wide of waist. Many of my friends have been attending a boot camp in our area for a while, and you can definitely tell they've been successful in their efforts to shape up and lose weight. My small group leader (Wendy) and a former co-worker (Becca) have encouraged me to try it for a while. Well, with all the changes I've been making for this project, I decided that today was the day to try it for myself.
I think I should rephrase that: I was FREAKING OUT, but decided to see what it was all about anyway. Even though the negative self-talk plagued me from the moment I woke up (you're too fat for this, you're going to look stupid, just stay in bed), somehow I managed to pull my car into the parking lot. That's not to say the bad self-talk didn't affect everything I did: I barely talked to anyone, even my friends. In my mind, I was sparing them the embarrassment of having to talk to the fat girl. I worried over everything: whether I was the biggest one there, whether I'd pass out or throw up, whether I could even complete the darned class.
Probably one of my biggest fears was this: I worried that every other person in that class looked at me and thought, Why on Earth is THAT girl here??? And while I'm not a stranger to this (some girls on our 8th grade Track team actually verbalized this to me when I joined to do shot-put), nothing can really prepare you for or make you doubt that thought.
I have to share a few facts with you about the experience:
1. I made it through the class, although very sore and a little flu-like now. But, I am still breathing. On my own. No resuscitation needed.
2. I've had two children, both by C-sections that brought complications and held long recovery times. This boot camp class, for me, measures up on that level. It was one of the hardest things I have EVER done.
Just the warm-up had me hyperventilating. I had to find a spot to sit, hand on my chest with tears streaming down my face. Part of me thought, surely they will come check on me. Surely this will prove that I can't handle this and they will tell me to go home. But no one came. Eventually, I managed to calm my breathing and headed back for more torture.
After several more activities, our instructor (is that the right word? Drill sergeant, for a boot camp?) had us pick partners. I didn't move. I did think, oh great. Now someone else will suffer because I can't handle it. I think her name was Denise. I think I apologized to her, at least once. I think that suicide runs are aptly named.
I kept alternating between hyperventilating and biting my tongue so I wouldn't cry, and just being mad. Mad at this stupid class. Mad at this stupid instructor-drill-sergeant. Mad at myself for even being in this position where I couldn't handle it.
And, in typical boot camp fashion, our instructor-drill-sergeant started to try and inspire us. Yeah, you know what I mean there. I can't remember what he said word for word as I was chopping off my tongue with my teeth so I wouldn't start sobbing. But I remember the basic gist: we were putting crap in our bodies, treating ourselves like the crap we ate. We were setting a bad example for our children, our families. We were abusing the gift that God had given us. And none of this would change until we did something different.
I sobbed the whole way home, like a deep down to my soul cry. I was angry, I was humiliated, I was sad.
But I had to ask myself:
Was he wrong?
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