I Love Boot Camp and I Know It... Part 2

Otherwise known as... The Worst Possible Sound a Woman Can Make in Public...

Sunday night commemorated the end of a long Easter weekend visiting family in the 'burbs of Atlanta (which I may or may not blog about in the future).  It was our first Easter without Dad.  It wasn't so bad, but I hate holidays without my dad. 

I'm sure they'll get easier, but this year is going to be hard.  I know this.

Anyway, Sunday night we were contemplating our drive back to Florida on Monday.  It's not such a bad drive-- about 8 hours.  When I drive alone it's 7-7.5 hours, depending on traffic, but it was nice having my mom and GDA along.  The two of them a great camaraderie between them, and my mom takes great pleasure in exclaiming callate (pronounced cashatay in Argentinian Spanish, meaning shut up in American English) with her fists thrusted into the air.

My mom is an amazing person.  I can't make this stuff up.

Besides that... GDA has kind of become the man in our lives. 

I digress.  I'm trying to tell a boot camp story!!!!

So, it was Sunday night, and we were contemplating our drive home.  We had stayed with my Auntie J., an amazing cook with no regard whatsoever for rapidly expanding thirtysomething waistlines.  (But really, when food tastes that good, who cares?)  Auntie J. asked. When are you planning to leave tomorrow?

I doubt those were her exact words, but you get the gist. 

Well... I have my exercise class at 4:45.  I'd like to be back by then.

I dared not call it boot camp.  They wouldn't understand. 

I got the look.  And then maybe the snort.  Or at least some kind of sound that let me know that no one wanted to be on the road early enough for me to go to camp.  Okay... I can respect that.

And maybe even appreciate it.  Monday morning, watching the news over coffee, was nice.

So yesterday afternoon, when Chad told me I was missed on Monday, I told him, Hey, I was in Atlanta and I got voted down.

Truth be told, when I left work yesterday afternoon, I didn't really feel like going to boot camp.  I was tired.  I wanted a lazy afternoon. 

I had also eaten Auntie J.'s food for three days.  I needed to have my butt kicked, in a serious way.  Chad did not disappoint.  Even if, by the end of the session, I was kind of wishing he had. 

Yesterday was one of my favorite kinds of camp sessions, where we're given a sheet of things to do, and a number of reps per exercise (20, some of them x2), and then we're unleashed to challenge ourselves. 

These exercises were not easy.  Overhead lunges.  Squat thrust jumps.  Plank rows. Power jacks.  (And believe me, much more.)  Seriously hard breathing, egregiously sweating, heart pounding, unfun.

But they did indeed kick my gluteous maximus.  In fact, while I was doing wide-legged sit ups, the unthinkable occurred. 

Yep, you guessed it.  Gaseous maximus escaped from my gluteous maximus.

I was mortified, and quickly looked at Katie Ice Cream, who was exercising closed to me, to apologize.  She registered no recognition of said gauche unwelcome sound upon her face. 

It appears I got off scot-free.  And yet I blog about it.  I think that making it public quite possibly frees me from the shame.  Everyone has gaseous maximus, but no one wants to talk about it.  Well, this past weekend I had quite a few occasions to participate in conversations started by my aunts and uncles about colonoscopies.  I had one last summer, gleefully chronicled in Channeling My Inner Katie Couric (which is one of my favorite posts by the way).  No one expects someone my age to have had a colonoscopy, but hey, I have a family history... and in five years, I'll have another. 

So you know, sometimes it's just best to get things out in the open.  I didn't feel like going to boot camp, but I went and I was better for it, even if my body revolted in a heinous way. 

Everybody has their crosses to bear.