My friend Paige is a personal trainer. Our daughters go to school together and she teaches a popular fitness class for women called “Boot Camp”. For those of you who may not be aware, this is a vigorous exercise routine that simulates a military work-out sans selling your soul to the government. Paige informed me she was holding a class the next day and invited me to attend. Unfortunately, this class coincided with my in-laws being in town, so I felt extraordinarily guilty as I slammed down 2 cups of coffee and bolted out the door without kissing my kids goodbye.
Upon reflection, my first clue that this might be a bad idea was that Paige is a positively gorgeous woman, with an absolutely perfect body and 3 kids that she “claims” to have birthed. Paige even looks sexy driving a minivan, which as everyone knows isn’t even logical. My second warning sign? The twenty other women taking this class LOOKED EXACTLY THE SAME WAY!!!!!!! The ladies were extraordinarily friendly and welcoming as they stretched their tanned, perfectly sculpted appendages.
Since most of my friends are married, myself included, there really is no reason to exercise. The only reasonable explanation to this puzzling scenario was that they were clones. Yes, clones. These women had somehow obtained a mutated XX chromosome that carried the necessary rudiments for perky breasts, cellulite free buttocks and eyes lacking dark circles and then took turns injecting themselves with this genetic marvel. *Fortunately while all this was taking place, the Bush administration was busy vetoing the cloning of mass quantities of sheep named “Dolly” and the confiscation of weapons that could potentially cause mass destruction, including slingshots and Chinese stars, so it remained entirely unbeknownst to them.
Fascinated by my discovery and determined to prove myself worthy to this privileged assembly, I started the “warm-up” routine. About forty-five seconds into it, I was ready to cash in my chips and go get a latte from Starbucks. However, I skillfully masked the painful grimace on my face with a yawn to signify that my athletic stamina far exceeded these remedial stretches. My plan of deceit was working quite nicely until it was time for the “real” work-out to begin. We started with a few thousand jumping jacks, followed with twenty miles of jogging in place, punched the air until it was pulverized and then did approximately eight thousand squats. In my opinion, this whole routine was entirely excessive but I absolutely REFUSED to pussy out, I had made it this far and my in-laws were not leaving until Sunday.
Thirty minutes later, we were on our gazillionth set of push-ups on alternated pinky fingers when I started to feel really strange. My feet started to tingle and my vision became blurred. Paige yelled at me to “GO DOWN FURTHER!” Which, under normal circumstances, I would have found to be quite hilarious but as I mentioned before, I was feeling more peculiar by the nanosecond. My heart was racing just like it did in college each time I had to take a pregnancy test and to top it off, I was positively freezing.
Finally, my body had reached its breaking point and it waaaaaaaaaaas pissed. I had blatantly ignored my cautionary symptoms and now I was going to pay. I bolted into the bathroom and sat down on the floor shaking from head to toe. Now, I am still not entirely sure what my reasoning was but I decided this would be a fine time to stand up and make my presence known. I opened the door, mumbled something in gibberish, fainted and barfed. Yes, fainted and barfed. Repeat: FAINTED AND BARFED. OMG.
Now, before you all start sobbing hysterically and wringing your hands in despair over my untimely death, let me assure you, I am very much alive as I write this. In fact, I felt better about 10 minutes later when Paige graciously gave me some Gatorade and my blood sugar level began to resemble that of something other than drywall. The clones, albeit disgusted, were incredibly kind as they assured me that “this type of thing happens all the time” in a sordid attempt to diminish my mortification. Ooooooof course it does! I personally cannot recall how many times I have heard the story of a woman going over to someone’s house for the first time ever, only to pass out and vomit when alcohol played absolutely no role.
Anyway, I plan on returning to Boot Camp next week in hopes that my dedication will earn me my very own vial of chromosomal perfection. This time however, I will only drink one cup of coffee prior and if I have time, maybe some Lucky Charms. HOORAH! XO