I nip out of the office and pull out my phone to call my wife, only to discover a new text message. Probably advertising bumff from Telstra or something. But no, it’s my stepdaughter, Deena:
Can you commit to 8 weeks of boot camp? Monday 5.30pm, Tues 6am, Wednesday 6pm, Thursday 6am, Fri 5.30pm and Saturday 7pm. You will just have to be a guinea pig for me.
(A note: Deena not only runs a one-woman accountancy business, she’s training to become a personal trainer – broadening her portfolio from getting your books in shape to the rest of you as well. Hence the bit about being a guinea pig; she needs someone to coach.)
My first thought? Oh, hell no. I am not signing up for that shit. Fittest guy in the world I might not be, but I’m at peace with my body. It’s enough.
I continue with what I was doing and call Vickie for some moral support for telling Deena thank you, but no thank you.
What does she say but “Go for it!”?
So much for spousal support in times of crisis. Doesn’t Vickie realise this means me being home really late two nights a week? Dragging arse out of bed really early on a Saturday morning and rocking all the way into town just for an hour’s boot camp? The money I’m going to have to spend on a decent pair of exercise shoes, protein shakes and the like?
And then there’s the inevitable bitching. I’m going to be channelling every twinge and ache of my muscle fibres through my vocal chords.
Then I remember one good reason to say yes: Deena does our taxes. For free.
Let’s face it, who else knows
where the financial bodies are buried can fabricate damning evidence of fraud to the tax department?
So I ring off and text Deena back to tell her yes. She replies and lets me know she’ll be over our place this afternoon to fill me in on the details. I figure I’ve got a week or two before the program starts to get the various bits and pieces together and psych myself up.
I get home from work, Deena’s already here. We sit with Vickie – and Deena drops the bombshell.
The programme started on Monday. My first session is six PM tomorrow.
Which means, of course, that session 2 is at 6AM on Thursday.
I know I call this blog, “The Society of Doing Things,” but I didn’t mean THOSE kinds of things…
The rest of this evening has been frantically pulling kit off the shelves. Vickie’s been way ahead of me, of course, having most of the kit I need in the wash before I got in.
Okay, I’ll admit I’m a little curious to see where this goes. I’ve flirted on and off with getting capital-F fit and I’ve already had a bunch of folks singing the praises of an honest-to-goodness fitness routine and its benefits to one’s energy and mental stamina.
The obligatory start-of-the-fitness-journey stats:
Right. So I’m thirty-six years old. I’m one hundred and eighty two centimetres (just under six feet) tall, and according to the electronic bathroom scales with the metal contact plates, I weigh 68.3Kg (around 150lbs), 54.3% of which is water and 13.4% fat.
If there’s an overall goal, I reckon it’s more about weight gain; building and / or toning muscle instead of losing fat.
Wish me luck!
And morphine. Plenty of morphine. Wish me a truckload of it conveniently falling over right next to the hospital…
Thanks and apologies to Nick Carling for borrowing the featured image from his Facebook profile.