Getting my ass kicked

For the past few weeks I've been attending twice-weekly Bootcamp sessions on the south side. 

After a good year and a half of watching my ass slowly meld to my office chair and eating crap, I decided to do something about it and get back into shape. My biggest issue with working out is the motivating factor. It's difficult for me to find the motivation on my own, especially when I'm so out of shape that I can't remember how to do a pushup, let alone perform the feat. 

So I signed up for Survivor Bootcamp, one of several in the city, for four weeks of hour-long cardio, weight training and calisthenics. Fun, right? Well...sure. If your idea of fun involves feeling your arteries chugging along and wishing your calf muscles would stop their screaming so you could hear your iPod better. 

Ok. So it's not that bad. The classes are fairly short and consist of changing patterns of cardio and training, so you're never doing any one thing long enough to get too exhausted from it before you're onto another exercise. 

I haven't noticed any physical differences yet, though my heavy panting at walking up a flight of stairs has somewhat diminished. 

I'm most impressed with my ability to actually show up to class. The first class was in the middle of a snowstorm, and my instructor didn't even show. But I stayed for the whole hour while more experienced girls showed me the ropes: and by ropes, I mean endless sets of lunges. Since then, I've done situps in the pouring rain and worn a toque and mittens to every class, but there is something to be said about the open air. 

How in shape I'll be by the end of this is debatable, but the purpose of the class is to get me motivated to start doing more workouts on my own and feel slightly more confident on a treadmill than a month ago. 

Although I'll have to dress more appropriately for future endeavours. While changing before class today, I realized that I'd forgotten my expensive Lululemon sports bra, and had to wear an underwire for the duration of the class. For those of you sans breasts, let me put it thusly: ouch. While even small-chested girls have issues running without support--bruises, stretching, bouncing--I spent my run trying to hold mine down to keep from knocking myself in the eye. Serious discomfort. Next time, I'm packing duck tape in my trunk, just in case. Otherwise, I'm liable to throw myself off balance and go tumbling into the street in front of a moving vehicle. 

PS - If there is such a place as Hell, and if I am indeed destined to serve an eternity there, my most dreaded punishment would be an endless set of burpees. How I loathe burpees.