Hold the Glimmer

Camp Kill

Posted on: March 9, 2011

If one defines the word “survive” as “still breathing”; then yes, I survived boot camp.  Barely. Let’s dig a little deeper, shall we?

On that fateful Wednesday afternoon, I saw a shadowy grey cloud loom over the San Fernando Valley and thought to myself, “Self.  It’s going to rain.  You are in the clear.”  To further support my notion that an exercise class would never force its poor, fat students to stand out in the cold rain as they threw medicine balls to each other, I gave the boot camp a call.

The phone rings, and a burley sounding man answers, with (I shit you not) patriotic band music in the backround. I cringe.

“Hi……..(long, awkward pause), is this Feel the Burn Boot camp?” –me

“Why yes it is! Are you registered for our class tonight?” –burley man

“Well, yes. But it’s my first class and I was just curious if you still hold classes in the rain? I mean, it’s very cold outside and with the rain, I’m afraid I’ll catch some kind of pneumonia!” –me

“Rain or shine sweetie; just like the coupon says.” –burley man

“Oh. Ok. Well, but what if it starts raining really hard?” –me

“Rain or shine lady.” –burley man

“Right. Hmm… well…What about snow?” –me

“Lady, were you even alive the last time it snowed in Los Angeles?” –burley man

“Do you mean last weekend in the foothills, or in 1989? And my answer is yes to both.” – me

“What’s your name?” –burley man

“Tracy? Why?”-me

“Well, I will see you in two hours, Tracy.” –burley man

(fuck.)

*sigh*

(super fuck.)

And thank God for that rain.

Remember my pretty sweat issue?  Well, when you’re covered in mud and grass, tree branches and leaves hitting your head, heavy rainfall and surrounded by beached whales, my now fairly reasonably attractive sweat wasn’t even noticeable.  In fact, at one point I mentioned to one of the whales that I couldn’t tell if I was sweating, crying, or if all this “wet” was my soul escaping my body, which resulted in a few laughs.  At that point, Sgt Burley Man picked up on my comedy routine, called me out by name and promptly asked yelled at me to do jumping jack/push up combos.  I rolled my eyes, of course, and fell flat into the mud and in push up position.  You better believe I was getting every single penny out of this horrible “work out”.

As I watched a few of the whales wander off from the “too brutal” work out (it was fucking ridiculous and I have no idea how I even mustered the idea or energy to get out of my car, let alone complete the class), my integrity kicked in…or something like that.  I told myself: “Self, you are not allowed to leave.  If you leave, you will become a beached whale.  Nobody likes a beached whale.” So I stayed.  And my body still hurts.  A week later.  Maybe it was from the medicine ball sprint throw?  Maybe it was from leap frog with your hands tied together with weights?  We’ll probably never know seeing as I’d rather push needles into my own eyes instead of attending that god awful class again.

And I now see nothing wrong with beached whales.  People help beached whales, right?  Maybe they just wanted to lay in the sun for a bit? What’s wrong with that??

PS- What ever happened to Missy Elliot?

Editor’s note: I cannot emphasize how mad I was at myself for even blogging about this, which then forced me to actually attend the class, in complete fear that my 4 readers would verbally and then physically attack me for fabricating such an exquisite piece of writing.  But, I showed up.  And, well, as we can see, it took a mere 7 days to compile my thoughts, let alone have the actual ability to type one post. You win again, Groupon.

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2 Responses to "Camp Kill"

LOL…great story….very vivid commentary….u should write a book!

You crack my shit up, Tracy. I love reading you…

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