At first, people told me I looked good, "with some weight on me" , then came the inevitable, "When are you due?" or "OMG! You're pregnant!". Excuse me, I'm fat-not pregnant. I always felt bad when I had to burst their bubble. The over excited ones were the worst. I longed to share in their enthusiasm and start talking due dates and baby names. Instead, I had to gently let them know that I was not pregnant and they were a jerk for making the assumption in the first place. The back peddling involved was never pretty but in some cases I derived a perverse sense of joy listening to them trying to get their foot or in some cases both feet out of their mouths.
I knew I was going to need help if I were to ever successfully complete any exercise program. Left on my own, I would talk myself out of working out and feel sorry for myself over a big bowl of pasta. Salvation came in the form of boot camp.
The first morning of boot camp, or hell as one might call it, when my alarm went off at 4:30 am, my first thought was, "You've got to be kidding-I'm getting up at this hour?" My second thought was "Roll over and go back to sleep crazy woman", followed by, "Move it, sister your jeans won't button". So I got up and began the humiliating process of the fit test. I am not fit. I knew I wasn't fit, that is why I was paying someone money to get me that way or close to that way or had some good ideas on how to grease my ass up enough to get back in my jeans.
The Fit Test consisted of measurements, running a timed mile, sit-ups, push-ups, and dips, all recorded on a nice little card to remind yourself that you were out of shape, pretty much pathetic, and no where near 36-24-36. I am not going to share my measurements with you because I am trying to banish those numbers from my brain. It took me 12 minutes 43 seconds to run a mile. I've been told the average is 8 minutes. My philosophy on running is this: I don't run unless something is chasing me, so I was content with my almost 13 minutes. I can only do 8 girl push-ups before my arms give out and I fall on my face, but was able to squeeze out 19 in 60 seconds. I'm not going to lie. I cheated. Towards the end of the minute, I was just barely bending my elbows and I'm pretty sure my form went out the window at push up number five. The lady next to me did 76 sit-ups in a minute, I did 26. I left boot camp that first morning too tired to even give a shit.
Day 2 was 10 times harder. I thought my lungs were going to revolt and refuse to breathe. We sprinted, we did push-ups, we did lunges and to make matters worse- it was a competition. The fastest way to piss off an overweight housewife, I found, is to come in last. I didn't care that my group lost all but one relay race, but that way of thinking was not shared by my fellow boot campers.
That first week, we worked out 4 mornings. I wish I could say that it got easier, or that my shins didn't feel like they had been pounded by a hammer, or even that I found that getting up at the crack of dawn was refreshing. Morning people are crazy. The only good thing about the camp starting so early in the morning was that it was dark and I could sneak in a few z’s when I was supposed to be doing push-ups.
Week 2 was a blur. The highlights of the week was when one of the ladies in my group farted while we were doing squats and I won at Simon Says. Suck it, housewives! I may not be able to run as fast as you want me to, but I can follow directions like a mo-fo.
Moral of the story…after 5 weeks and 50 bucks, I was still fat. So I did what I should have done in the first place, I changed my eating habits. No more Rocky Road. No more pasta and bread. No more comfort food. Grilled chicken salads all the way. Which totally sucked, by the way. The weight slowly but surely started to come off. My pants actually buttoned and I haven’t been asked once when I’m due.
Today, walking down the hall at work, a lady said to me, “Brandy’s little again.” And it made my day. Until she said, “I bet you sure are glad people don’t think you’re pregnant anymore.”