Tuesday, November 6, 2012

Dear God, It's me Abbie.

I heard a car horn honk in my driveway. My friend had arrived to pick me up. It was time. I walked slowly out the door, feeling every bit as if I were walking the green mile to my death. I was headed to boot camp. Dun, Dun, Dun.

We arrived, and all of the boot campers seemed happy - way too happy. They were laughing and joking around like it was happy hour at the bar. WAIT! Had I missed cocktail hour? What were they so damn happy about? Did they not know that mountain climbers were surely in their near future?

This was no time for jokes. This was time for prayer.

Dear God: Please give me the strength to survive the next hour. Also please strengthen my bladder and restrict my gas. Amen. 

I scoured the room looking for the boot camp sergeant. Having no idea who she might be, I was looking for a real bad-ass. Then there she was - all 80lbs of her. Nothing about her was remotely intimidating. She looked sweet like maybe we could be friends. Then she told me to go weigh myself - ok, forget it, I hate her. 

She then handed me a measuring tape and asked for my measurements. Would that tape work to hang myself? Death seemed preferable to wrapping it around my hips and reading aloud a number. Then to drive the point home  - that I was indeed chubby and needed her help - she had me place my hands around a device that provided her with numbers to officially deem me overweight. 

Dear God: Please help me shrink those numbers. I do not know exactly what they mean but the skinny boot camp sergeant recorded them in my chubby chart. Oh and please help me eliminate the need for a chubby chart. Amen. 

Then it all began.  A blur of leg lifts, jumping jacks, push ups and planks. I remember it starting, but I think I must have slowly lost oxygen as most of it is hard to recall. The boot camp sergeant barked orders at us to go a little faster - to lift the knees a little higher and I admired her bravery. But feared for her safety.

Dear God: Please protect the tiny bootcamp sergeant.  She does seem nice. She's screaming at a bunch of overweight, out-of-breath women and I'm afraid at any moment they might revolt. The sergeant, I fear, is in danger. Oh and I might be dying - so see you soon. 

Then it was over. I had lived. I was proud I had made it through and terrified that I had 6 more weeks to go.

In the days that followed, I lost function in both legs. I had pulled muscles so badly that I was unable to put on my pants without lying down on my bed. I was unable to lift my legs up. I had been greatly wounded in boot camp battle. A purple heart? No thanks, but I would take a Big Mac. 

Dear God: Please help me make it through bootcamp with the use of all of my limbs. Also, if it's not too much to ask, please remove all calories from Big Macs, Bud Lights and chocolate. Amen. 

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