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On the Friday that the Dork Lord and I went to Austin, I got up at five, as normal, put on a bunch of assorted and mismatched Nike apparel and headed down to boot camp. I was feeling pretty good - energized and strong - and though I’d grown accustomed to a good butt kicking, the workout that morning was nothing short of brutal. We ran suicide drills in relay teams. And if it wasn’t your turn to run, you were doing intense ab exercises in push up position. Each relay segment was followed by a sprinted lap and… then repeat. I swallowed my own vomit twice. What’s more, I came in last every single time. There was something so fundamentally humiliating and defeating about pushing myself to puke-inducing-maximum only to lag behind (way, way behind) even the other jiggly folks, who like myself, aren’t exactly athletic, that I had a bit of a breakdown. I apologized to my team for being slow and when camp was over, I sat in my car, key dangling in the ignition, and cried. I did not feel strong. I felt embarrassed.

I came home, pulled myself together, told the Boy that I believe yoga was more my speed, and never went back. I just couldn’t stomach the idea of being last again. And again. The interesting thing is that between yoga and walking/jogging, I’ve lost exactly the same number of pounds as I did at Boot Camp the month before, but I don’t feel like an utter failure -  like the last, awkward kid picked for Red Rover. Yes, it was an intense work out and the trainers were, for the most part, excellent. But as it turns out, I’m just not into the torture of it all. 

Who knows, I may opt to subject myself to humiliation again when spring rolls around and people start saying words like, pool party. At that point, torture becomes sort of relative.