Bikini what?

There is nothing more ridiculous than Bikini Bootcamp. Unless you're at Bikini Bootcamp. 

A seven-day, intense fitness camp on the beaches of Tulum (Mexico) has one of the worst names of any fitness camp I've heard of; most of the women I'm here with told their friends they were going to "fat camp" or on a "yoga retreat." None told them they were going to Bikini Bootcamp. The name generates snickers and sneers from the drivers meeting other passengers at the Cancun airport who stare at the man with the giant red sign welcoming you to Mexico.

Even the woman who recommended it to me wouldn't tell me what it was called. She sent me a link instead. And that is what sold me. The week outlined was just what I thought I was looking for: seven days of yoga, circuit training, healthy eating, massages, a beach and, if I really wanted it, a $9 margarita.

I'm not the fitness type. Really.  It was just time to do something. Since giving up my personal trainer in 2005, and not finding anytime in my schedule for yoga, I have watched my muscles weaken and my ass grow. And grow. I knew it was happening. The muffin tops appeared above my jeans so I switched to dresses. I love cream, butter, bread, wine, cheese, and pork belly. I make homemade ice cream and cake. I lick the bowl.  There are consequences for this type of behavior. I shoved the scale under the sink. No witnesses, no crime. 

I tried not to really care. Why should I? Really.  Men told me I was fetching. Girlfriends admired my sense of style. My mother, well, she didn't say anything. I should have listened to those words more closely, that silence more. But as work grew increasingly demanding, as life's tragedies (some little, some not so little) piled up, so did my weight.

So, in addition to my 12 things consumption diet, I'm also looking for ways to get back in touch with my body. I will never, ever be a size 7 again (mostly, because they don't make them anymore) but I would like to be an 8 or a 10, and not a consistent 12. I would also like to take longer walks without feeling like I'm going to pass out or walk up the stairs at the Dupont Metro. These are all things I used to be able to do, with ease.

This is how I find myself at Bikini Bootcamp. Despite the crappy name, it was the right price, the right length, had the right attitude and, best of all, had a place for me just a few weeks after this epiphany occurred. So I'm here.

The question now is, will I survive?

Seriously. What was I thinking? This is already so much harder than I thought. I'm only on Day 2 and I can barely lift my arms above my head. Some might blame the years of eating whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted it, I blame the punching sequence during circuit training. Ouch.

And the beach walks! I grew up on a beach. I know how to walk a beach. Leisurely. Playing in the surf. Throwing sticks with the dog. Not a forced four mile march down one end and up the other. Double ouch.

Trouble is, no one here yells at you. If you are last in the beach walk, the trainers just shake their head and laugh. If you put the five pound weight down, they turn and focus their attention on someone else. They aren't here to do this for you and they certainly aren't here to make you do anything you don't want to do. Huh? Didn't I pay all this money for someone to torture me? That's what boot camp is, right?

Not here. And while this form of training might be nirvana for some, it is a nightmare for me. I have always been my own worst enemy. I stick with things that shouldn't be stuck with - jobs, boyfriends, appliances - especially when there is drama and conflict involved.  I tend to flee things that work - diets, jobs, boyfriends - because I tell myself that it is too easy, too comfortable. How can I be expected to make it thru a week where no one is forcing me to do anything? No yelling? No drama? No conflict? I'm in trouble now. This is not my strength.

(Especially, as I write this, an annoying couple not at the boot camp just sat down and ordered a mango daiquiri with chips and salsa. Trust me there were plenty of other seats in this near-empty cafe. They are doing this to taunt me. I don't know them but I do know this. I want that daiquiri. Right now I would probably hit this woman for her chips; you can only eat so much jicama.)

Yet, today, I found myself loving the torture. I'm not sure when my mind snapped into place. Maybe it was realizing that I used to do all of these things (walking, yoga, weights) regularly. Maybe it was recognizing that the 46-year old accountant from Dewey Beach was kicking my ass on the circuit (as was her 50 year old best friend). I don't know and I don't really care. All I do know is that I'm actually looking forward to learning Zoomba, to going to yoga and tomorrow morning's march along the beach. 

Maybe it is the sun talking. Or maybe it is the dream of putting back on a particularly spectacular pair of leather pants that I got on sale at an outlet store in 2000. But, despite the ridiculous name, this bootcamp is just the place for me.
 
I may even buy a t-shirt.