Bootcamp

I had heard a story about Barry’s Bootcamp where a chubby lady, frustrated with the fourth set of back leg lifts, started crying in the middle of a class (“I think I have seriously injured my back.”) and the instructor got right up in her face and said Waa, Waa, Waa and then gave her a kick in the ass. (soccer style, not a hard one)“Look at that jigglin’; why don’t you cry when you look at that!” I love that. I love the idea of having to suffer and be miserable in order to succeed. So when my sisters asked me to go with them two days ago I thought: yeah Barry, bring it on.

First of all, as we were walking in, my sister took my arm and said don’t be scared but there’s our instructor. He looked over at us and winked. Juliette whispered “He’s a stone cold fox” and I felt simultaneously giddy and geriatric. The room was dark, not sexy, candle dark but cold, torture chamber dark, and to make matters worse the music was so loud I could feel it in my teeth. Something was happening, and I think I knew what it felt like to be a detainee at Guatanamo.

I can’t go into the details because I blacked out, but I do remember almost killing myself trying to do sidestep criss-crosses on the treadmill. And that no one there was laughing or smiling. And that on our way out, no one spoke or looked each other in the eye, and that I dragged my purse along the ground as a staggered across the parking lot. And that yesterday and today I have to sit down when I go down stairs, and brace my hand on the wall when I sit down on the toilet.

It’s fantastic. I’m going back tomorrow.