Blood, Sweat and Tears

No such vigour in my class!

There was a time when I looked forward to Boot Camp.  Well not looked forward exactly (I'm not an exercise freak), but it was definitely something pleasant in my life.  Fresh air, outdoors, in one my favourite parks, with the Burj Khalifa twinkling away in the background.  We went twice a week, every week, for months, making us lean mean killing machines (well, perhaps not quite, but it did result in one of my best ever compliments: "Man, your body is Coke bottle tight!" God Bless America.)  It also had the added benefit of meaning I could spend time with one of my best friends, catching up on work, boys, and usually ending in a happy chat about what we were having for tea.  The whole thing was permeated with peals of laughter. 

That was, until I discovered evil Boot Camp last night.  It's been a while since I've been (which was a major part of my problem) and in that time I've lost some fitness, and it's gotten hot.  I mean really hot.  I knew I was in trouble when I left the office at 7 and felt that familiar 'eyelids sticking to eyeballs' sensation.  Grim as that sounds, it's the best way I can find to describe the heat that engulfed me.

Undeterred, we headed to the park.  Our lovely trainer J knows us well, after many years of enduring our inane chat and moaning ("we hate running!") and it was lovely to see him again.  But this time he wasn't alone, he had two assistants, whose sole job was to torture us for a full 60 minutes.

The hour that followed was honestly one of the most hideous of my life.  I used to laugh at girls that dissolved into tears during our sessions: I was very nearly one of them.  The heat, the exercises (in small groups so there was nowhere to hide), the fact that I was split up from the best friend (I whimpered) and instead paired with a small Italian dynamo of a girl who took the whole thing very seriously ("Count will you Kelly, I am trying to breathe") conspired against me, and at more than one point, I thought I was going to pass out.

As if all this wasn't enough, the session I'd chosen to 'ease myself back in' was also attended by...a professional photographer.  Yes, as I sweated, groaned, and staggered my way through the session, there he was, like an omnipresent firefly, flashing away in my face.  The first 20 or so shots, I smiled grimly. By the end I was completely oblivious and couldn't care less.  It put me in mind of what mothers say about giving birth with a cast of thousands staring at your nether regions: by that time you could have a marching band walk past and you wouldn't care, such is the level of pain, torture and exhaustion you are suffering.

We somehow made it home, broken women. Will I go again? Maybe.  But I'll need to throw myself around the gym a few times first.  And sit in a heat chamber in my exercise kit to acclimatise. And have an oxygen mask on standby throughout.  You think I'm joking....?