So, here's what happens when you give a fat chick a ring.
I need to lose weight. A lot of weight. Since I quit smoking, I've added about 20-25 lbs. of hot, beefy flubba. In Texas, we like our Chicken Fried Steak. And Chicken Fried Chicken. And Chicken Fried Tofu. We'll pretty much Chicken Fry anything we can get our hands on.
Oh, and did I mention my affection for the bottle? Love the booze, I do.
So, I'm fat (and I don't wanna hear otherwise from you wellwishing, non-self-depricators). I'm almost fat enough to shop in a special store. And, if I haven't mentioned it, I'm getting married on the beach. Which means that I need to look good. And not just good, REALLY good. Did I mention that M's hot ex-girlfriend is gonna be there? Right. Must. Look. Good.
So I signed up for bootcamp. "Womens Fitness Camp" they call it. Only an hour, 3X a week for a month. You can re-sign on a month-by-month basis. I thought, how bad can an hour be? Oh. Silly, silly me.
First of all, I had *no idea* that one could ache in so many places at once...
My trainer asks me to get to "fitness camp" by 6:15, 15 minutes early, so we can go over "the rules". I work an hour away from home, where the camp is, so naturally I get there 10 minutes late. I look around as I drive up at the other 11 women, and notice one overwhelming difference in us: they all have AWESOME bodies. I mean, they all look super fit, thin, yada yada yada. I haven't started yet and already I have an inferiority complex.
So in order to look like I *may* belong (my extra 40 lbs. is just for show), I decide to sprint up to the group. Now, 6:30 is pretty damn dark, and we're supposed to be meeting in the lit playground area. In the darkness, and in my sprinting idiocy, I fail to see a HUGE BROKEN BENT POLE sticking out of the ground. I run straight into it, smashing my knee on the metal, and ripping off all but one layer of skin on my poor knee.
It hurt. Bad. I try to play it off like I bumped into a bug, and continue my quick, albeit a bit limpy, run to the group.
Resistance bands. Grapevines. Lunges. Squats. Push ups. Really hard other things that have names that I don't remember. I was under the impression that a mere hour of this would be cake. I was sorely, sorely mistaken.
By the time we were done, my knee was throbbing. I felt like if I sneezed, that last layer of skin would bust open and drown us all in pools of blood. I limped to my car, cursing the pole as I passed it, and drove home.
By the time I got to my house, only 3 miles away, my knee was so swollen, I thought I would have to cut my pants off. Between that and the fractured rib my sports bra was threatening me with, I thought I would NEVER EVER go back.
Well, it's still bad this morning, but after ice packs, it's not as swollen. It's really bruised, but not so bad that I can't go back tomorrow night. And my M would kill me if I paid for 12 training sessions and bailed after one.
Here's a picture of my knee:
Feel sorry for me, please. When I called M to tell him about the boo boo and achyness, he said "aw." Then the bastard said "Don't take this the wrong way, honey, but, I didn't think you'd be coordinated enough to do grapevines." Fucker.