OK guys, I've signed up for a Bootcamp. At the risk of being accused of attention seeking (moi?) I'm going to give you another chance to read that sentence in lots of little dramatic sentences: I've. Signed. Up. For. Bootcamp. Did you hear me at the back? Audible gasps please and a change of background scenery if you will, to one befitting GI Jane et al, complete with abs you could mistake as breasts. Because that's going to be me! Me! With breast abs and everything. Just imagine, Husband won't know whether to jump me or milk me (a gross too far? Sorry mum).
I still can't quite believe I've done it. I mean, I am far, far away from the ab thing (I won't mention the breast thing again, a case of over milking the cow don't you think?), about several vats of Chardonnay and hours of Oprah reruns away. If I ever do attempt any sort of exercise, and sitting down and standing up count, I only succeed in making everyone else gasp at their own relative super-fitness as I stagger behind sounding like an asthmatic wombat. I did once (once) drag my sorry soggy arse (Americans that's Ass to you, I put it in the title to help, sometimes I'm all heart) on a 5Km race only for it to take so long that the bin men picked me up on their rounds the next morning. By now you're getting the gist: Me+Exercise=Diseased Wombat+Soggy Arse, not an equation I would like to foist on any adolescent maths class.
So I'm quite pleased with myself really, it really shows determination and forward thinking doesn't it? In fact, I'm positively a forward planner, gasp at my organisational skills! Marvel at my strength of character! Envy my multi tasking endeavors! (you have to move arms and legs together you know). In short, this is a fantastic achievement for me.
Obviously I have yet to start the bootcamp, the first session is on Thursday, but still, it says a lot about how far I've come surely?
And I promise I'm going to do it, every week and everything, not least because I've paid £97 for the privilege. Yup, mouths closed please, £97 of my hard earned cash. £97 for someone to kick my ass, and it's not hard to miss; it's been used in emergencies to hold up dams.
I have paid someone to shout at me, make me run around outside, get me muddy, sweaty, laugh at my nail varnish, and generally abuse me in much the manner of a psycho. I have, in short, rented a psycho, one who I plan to meet alone at 8.30am (this just gets better and better doesn't it) in the park. Reading this back I conclude astutely that this may not have been my brightest moment.
Not only all of the above, but psycho shouting person has furnished me with a welcome pack. Do not be fooled dear reader as I was that this welcome pack includes anything so welcoming as a cheery hello or a lighthearted suggestion that I go shopping post haste for some shiny new exercise gear. Crikey they didn't even throw in a free chocolate bar, surely, surely the cornerstone of any great welcome pack?
But oh no, this welcome pack contained a five page diatribe of all things I have to give up: food, chocolate, alcohol, sex, (joke, Husband, joke) during the next four weeks, and all the things I'm expected to do: exercise, not ask questions, run at the double, cry only when instructed and keep an honest food diary.
Which is my sticking point to be honest, I mean how on earth am I expected to keep an honest food diary without lying? I'm working hard on it obviously in case I starve but really, why include the word honest? It's just more abuse as far as I'm concerned, why can't they just say keep a food diary then I can write whatever I like. In fact I'd keep Paula Radcliffe's diary, that'd impress them, think how much praise I'd get for that; they may even furnish me with a medal, Oprah would have me on her sofa, I'd jump up and down on it vigorously shouting "I love it! I LOVE it! Then everyone would know I had a film to promote and go and see it. I'd then have a baby that looked like Katie Holmes and all would be right with the world. See where lying gets you? A Hollywood career and a pretty baby that's where.
Anyway, I've been working through the night and I think I can wing it; I can call chips potato (which is good for you, baked, no butter), ice cream could be frozen fruit dessert (I will put fruit on the chocolate midnight cookie ice cream), dairylea sandwiches could be savory protein spread on wholemeal bread (I will put some wholemeal flour on the white bread), mayonnaise could be egg and olive oil smoothie, wine could be organic grape juice (I will buy organic wine) and pizza could be finest Italian bread with sieved tomatoes and savory protein.
But chocolate? Cake? I'm all out of ideas.
So here's the competition: the best viable alternative names for chocolate and cake wins a picture of me participating at bootcamp*. It'll be worth it I swear**
*may not be picture of author
**not a guarantee
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