boot_camp

Your mother wears army boots! Screamed with a vicious snarl, that expression was the most horrid thing you could say to offend childhood friends, implying I suppose that their mom wasn’t very attractive or feminine. Of course nowadays, plenty of moms wear army boots and serve in the military. And, boot camp has taken on a larger meaning too denoting rigorous training of many kinds—writing boot camp, math boot camp, shake your booty boot camp, you name it and there’s a boot camp.

Yesterday, I went to a boot camp taught by my trainer at our athletic club. I’ve been a runner for close to 30 years. I once taught aerobics classes. I know, just using the word “aerobics” dates me; I should say “cardio” instead. I do weights, core and balance workouts with a trainer 2x a week. I’m not a total wimp. But I have to say, boot camp at 8 in the morning was something I wasn’t prepared for at all.

Push-ups (I detest), jumping rope (I still put the extra little hop in), relays running sideways, bear crawls and more…non-stop for 60 minutes! Thirty minutes in, I was ready to puke. I looked around me. Young chicks everywhere, I was the oldest. No way was I going to embarrass myself. And I didn’t, thank goodness. So I’m throwing boot camp into my fitness mix twice a week…kicking it up a notch. Next time I won’t reward myself when I get home with the big plate of blueberry pancakes!

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