Menu of Pain

I recently signed up for a fitcamp. You know, one of those bootcamp-style fitness programs that makes people cry publicly and sweat blood and stuff like that. What was I thinking? Well, I was thinking several things:

1. Look at that lard ass! I seriously need to do something about it. Hey, here's an ad for a fitness camp. I'll try that.

2a. That sounds like a poor idea.
2b. How bad can it be?
2c. It's probably going to be pretty bad.
2d. Well, a little public humiliation never hurt anyone.
2e. It hurts me.
2f. You're such a whiner.
2g. Piss off.

3. Face it, no matter how pathetic I am, there's always someone worse. No excuses. I'll just stick close to That Person, and no one will notice me.

So I signed up for fitcamp.

Apparently all the other That People stayed home this week, because it was painfully and repeatedly (and sweatingly-wheezingly-jigglingly) brought to my attention that I am That Person: I am the person who makes all the other people look good.

Like, really good.

I would have thought it would bother me to be so patently lousy at something, but you know what? I hardly even minded. I'm not even all that zen about the world, it's just that, if I was hoping for a That Person, then other fitcampers probably were too. (In fact, a few looked like they may have gotten de facto promotions out of the role when I joined up.) Those people are probably pretty grateful for my presence - possibly a little repulsed, too, but still grateful - and it's always nice to be appreciated.

So every day the trainer has a whole new set of exercises for us to do. It must be a lot like menu planning, just with muscle groups instead of food groups. I can tell he's really working that food pyramid, because my everything hurts - a lot. I couldn't wash the top of my hair on Monday morning because my arms hurt too much to lift them to my head. I sortof lathered up the bottom and hoped for some form of soapmosis to trickle up to my scalp.

And then I had DH do up my bra hooks for me.

(2h. Told you so.)