I’m in month three of my “get fit or die trying” regime.
I ended up doing two months of boot camp, instead of one. I was still enjoying the classes themselves by the end, but the commute was killing me – I was spending a total of 40 minutes a day in the car going to and from, before sunrise, just to get there. It was almost more exhausting than the workouts (almost).
When the two months were up, I got a membership to the tiny little gym at our nearby community centre. I meet a friend every weekday morning at 6. Three days a week we do a range of exercises similar to what I was doing at boot camp, and on the other two days we hit the treadmill for cardio.
According to my woefully inaccurate bathroom scale, I haven’t lost much weight, but I know things are in much better trim, because today when I was walking across the kitchen, my jeans straight-up fell off. Slid halfway down my ass before I could catch them.
Charlie immediately yelled “I SEE HANNAH’S BUTT! GUYS! DAISY! GEORGE!! I SEE HANNAH’S BUTT!!!!!” and then he laughed about it for a good half-hour. I had to tell his mom the story at pickup. Imagine, for a moment, that you have your not-quite-3-year-old in daycare. You are sitting around the dinner table, exchanging little stories about your day, when your cherubic angel insists that his daycare provider showed everyone her butt as a little mealtime entertainment. You would absolutely be concerned, I’m thinking.
Thank goodness she’s got a sense of humour.