Fitness Boot Camp

Mr. Husband is ever supportive. I am super lucky—I know. While we are knee-deep in Clomid, which is like shooting girl-crazy right into my veins, the stress is doubling, tripling, and trying to fold again. What do I do? I eat my feelings. I’ve been eating a lot of feelings these past four months of Clomid. Mr. Husband is more than happy to eat feelings for the both of us. We are a feeling-eating fest.

We need relief. My good friend Sarah, the first person ever to train me in a corporate environment ten years ago, mentioned an opportunity: working out with a personal trainer. What are we? Celebrities!? No, we’re normal people who have a great opportunity to work out with a very small group of four people with a personal trainer who, from his home, forces us to run, jump, lunge, lift weights, and run some more. This morning, my legs are screaming. It consists of short-bursts of high-impact cardio training. Ouch.

This is called Fitness Boot Camp with interval training. Maybe we wanted to be a bit more like Harold? Look, Harold! We’re exercise soldiers! Every time I do a push-up, I think of Harold doing push-ups in Army boot camp. I’m sure it’s exactly the same thing. Fitness Boot Camp means that we have a trainer who puts us through a series of short sprints—continuous cardio movement, but varied. Lots of movement—we are both sweating in the first ten minutes. NPR did a story recently on this new “craze.” I guess we are complete trend followers now. I don’t feel trendy—I only feel really, really sore.

Mr. Husband agreed to do this crazy thing with me—follow the craze. To remind you, my dear Mr. Husband is a video-gamer. His typical exercise involves thumbs, fingers, slouching over, squinting at the TV, and the occasional frustration at losing a man without saving the point in the game. I bought him a bike for Birthannukah, but we haven’t ridden much since my Trek is currently in the shop (and has been for three weeks going on four). Mr. Husband is not very athletic, but he doesn’t have to be. At his height, 6’7”, he can not eat for one meal and lose five pounds. Lucky. Mr. Husband is quick to remind me that his body is built to house his brain—not for exercise.

Yet, he is enthusiastic. Our feeling-eating has gotten out of control. We need to tighten up on all ends. Economically, spending a little extra for a muscle man to whip us into shape is a good decision—we can’t afford new wardrobes for both of us if we grow out of our clothes. Must maintain. Must actually lose a bit, but more important to get control.

The first evening, Monday, we were plucky and excited. We met Chad, our built-of-steel-muscle-man, and his wife, Tammy. We met their two kids as we walked into their basement and prepared for the very first workout we’ve ever had. We’ve never been to a gym. Our first night was so not like Wii Fit. No way. We started with jumping jacks, mountain climbing, running the ladder, sprints up and down the long driveway, push-ups, weight lifting with lunges—we drank more water than we ever have before. Mr. Husband was a champ, and he truly surprised me.

We took a run down the street to the stop sign and back. Running there is no problem, running back is all up-hill. Chad, ever encouraging, says, “whoever can beat me to the driveway gets $50 off this month!” Sarah and I laugh, and then a breeze hits me as I see my Mr. Husband sail by me—legs flying, arms tightly held to his chest—he is running! Mr. Husband is running like the wind, like a big winged beast who probably cannot stop himself. I have never in my life seen Mr. Husband run. I always thought seeing him run would be like seeing Pheobe run in that Friends episode where she’s flailing her arms and can’t get one foot in front of the other. Not so. Mr. Husband was crisp, fast, and skilled like an antelope (a very tall antelope).

Chad chased Mr. Husband, probably taking two steps for every one of Mr. Husband’s, and he let Mr. Husband feel like he was about to win. I imagine Mr. Husband had that moment of victory before Chad picked up the pace and sailed by him effortlessly. We didn’t get our $50 off, but seeing Mr. Husband run is priceless.

Of course, he couldn’t move after that. Not at all. He tried, but his body quit. He lay on the floor making accusatory faces at me. By the second half of “just ten more” (that’s what Chad is always telling us), my left leg stopped working. It simply wouldn’t move during the jumping jack-lunges. I wasn’t so bad the next day, but today, after day two, my body aches. We are like two very old people now, shuffling about the house and having to help each other get ready for work. Bonus: we found out that we really like being old together. Not bad. And we feel so invigorated in our shuffling oldness. Really not bad.