Hold the Glimmer

Posts Tagged ‘boot camp suck

I’ve been on this health-ish kick lately (to further specify, I’m just trying not to inhale every single thing thrown in front of my freaking face.  I’m human.  I don’t know how to eat 7 million vegetables a day or say ‘no’ to a manhattan, but I am trying to be a better me), and have been falling in love with the gym.

I use to take a boot camp class that was incredible and changed my entire body and mind, but with being in the newsroom a zillion hours a week and holding down four jobs and a NEW INTERNSHIP (!!!!!! Just let me finish a few sentences without parentheses’ and we can discuss) my available hours to gym it up are weird.  But I love it! I’m lifting weights, sweating all over disgusting gym machines, and talking to trainers about supplements and stacks and UGHH it feels so good.  I see regulars and we do the “whatsup” nod to each other and I’m sure soon enough that we will all be best friends, drinking protein shakes at the park and laughing about our former fat selves … or maybe not. Whatever. A girl can dream, right?

While I’m loving the gym and their insane playlists (really, out of this world.  I’ve almost asked who makes them and if I can jump in to the rotation), I am 100% not in to the gym bathrooms.  Let me rephrase- I am 100% not in to the full on bush every single time I walk in to the locker rooms.  It’s bush central.  Lot’s of bush. Bush walking around, bush towel drying, bush SITTING ON THE ACTUAL BENCHES WHILE IT FINDS ITS CHONIES.  How. Why. STOP.

I’m so pro woman.  The pro-est of woman and god we are beautiful creatures, but can I just not see your bush?  Can you hide that thing?  I don’t care what you do with it, but can I just not have it in my face every time I walk in to the room?  I’d say I see a minimum of eight new bushes a week.  I’m averaging four gym trips a week and each one of those trips includes a stop in the locker room to lock up my oh-so-valuable purse (no value, quite honestly.  Less value than an empty wallet. It’s. sad.) and with every turn of the corner in that freaking room is a goddamn bush.

Maybe I’m the prude?  Maybe it’s just weird for me to walk around naked in a room full of women.  I’m actually starting to like my body and it still freaks me out that women of ALL SIZES AND SHAPES are so ok with theirs.

And, I’m insanely jealous.  To be able to feel so comfortable in your own skin … a girl can really dream.  I envy each and every one of those women, of all ages, that rips off their gym clothes and full frontal walks to the sinks to wash their hands. Naked. Totally accepting of their body.  One day, Tracy, one day …

On a brighter note- internship! I got one! It’s paid! It pays shit! But it pays!

Starting this summer, I will be working for an actual publication! I think this means I am actually fulfilling my dreams of writing and I am scared as shit but it’s beyond exciting. My boyfriend can attest that I’m almost always exhausted and I usually fall asleep within seventeen seconds of seeing him (he’s the greatest I SWEAR), but I’m the happiest I’ve ever been working my ass off to catch this dream. It’s all happening you guys; it’s all happening.

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



(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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