Now that it’s summer I’m focusing on getting in shape which means I’ll be bikini ready by mid-November. This is not surprising–I’m always late, a trait that almost never works out in my favor; fortunately, I never care. But it would be nice to accomplish what I know, deep down, will be jack shit before November, so in an attempt to jump start this process, I have signed up for a before-work Boot Camp, to take the place of my morning cry. I don’t have high hopes, because almost everything in my life involving the morning is a failure. In fact, I consider the morning a failure in and of itself:
- It’s the morning so I have yet again failed to sleep through an entire work day.
- I have to get up now because I’ve failed to dream myself a new life without work.
- Looks like I’ve failed at getting so drunk last night that I can’t call in sick today.
You get it. This is a running conversation in my head at 6:30 a.m. Monday through Friday, and then for the one to two hours it takes for me to actually dry my eyes and get out of bed. Starting next week, though, I’m going to need to speed up my before-work dance of despair so that I can make it to my 7 a.m. Boot Camp. That’s right … 7 … in the morning … a.m. … am I fucking crazy? Are traffic signals even on that early?! I guess I’ll find out (the answer to the latter question, that is; I know the former).
I‘ve tried this before. Last summer I signed up for a bikini Boot Camp that started at 6 a.m. (sound familiar?!). I didn’t realize this until 6 p.m. when I showed up ready to workout and was informed I was just 12 hours shy of catching the class. It didn’t even occur to me that there would be a Boot Camp at 6 a.m. I mean, I know traffic signals don’t work that early, because I was up that late one night and from what I could tell neither electricity nor gravity work at that hour. Thank God credit cards do.
Anyway, by 6:01 p.m. that day it was obvious I wasn’t going to be participating in a bikini Boot Camp so I took whatever was available–and that met in the evening–which meant I found myself in a triathlon training Boot Camp. This was awkward in so many ways, most notably because I had no desire–nor have I ever–to participate in a triathlon, a fact that became brutally apparent to the rest of the class when the swimming “training” turned into swimming lessons for me. Also, when my bikini bottom shot off twice in the middle of my doggie paddle. I may not have been in a bikini Boot Camp but I wasn’t going to give up on a bikini, I’ll tell you what. I don’t think it would be a stretch to say I got absolutely nothing out of that Boot Camp, unless you count a good dose of embarrassment being a 29-year old with a kickboard in the shallow end of a pool–which I don’t, for the record.
But this Boot Camp is going to be different. If anything, I just won’t go and can spare myself the hassle of having to quit.