posted Thu, 15 Dec 2005
We had to have boot camp inside yesterday because it was raining. At first, we were excited – a chance to get in out of the cold!
Little did we know that Tony would make us regret our joy. (Remorse our joy? Don’t you feel regret for things you didn’t do and remorse for things you did?)
Tell me you’d be able to do pushups when someone else in class yells back to Tony, “I got nowhere else to go, sir!” after he gets in her face about not working hard enough. (As if I could do pushups anyhow.)
Well, anyhow. The gym had all sorts of nifty toys that Tony put to evil use. Like light. He saw what we were doing and forced us to actually work, that meanie. He made us do ladders on the basketball court. I had never done ladders on land, but I remembered what they were from swim team in high school and I had a pretty good idea of how they might translate onto dry land.
Darned if I wasn’t right. We started on the sideline, ran to the middle, touched the ground, sprinted back to the side, ran to the other sideline, touched it, sprinted back, touched, sprinted to the middle, touched, sprinted to the side, touched, sprinted to the far side, touched, and repeated ad nauseum.
And I do mean ad nauseum. Every time I think I might be approaching getting into something approaching decent shape, I am reminded that no, I am not, that if this country’s liberty depended on my ability to sprint, we would be under the control of the communists in about two minutes. So thank the armed forces for your liberty, not me.
Then he found the heavy bars he could use as rifles. He made us each grab one, although he said we couldn’t take the pink ones. I thought he was just making a fashion statement, but then I learned that the pink ones were the lightest. The blues were the next lightest at 12 pounds.
Twelve pounds might not sound like much, but try holding it over your head with both hands while you jog around a basketball court a few times. Heck, try holding it just in front of you while you jog around a gym. A few boot campers are military vets. I heard them muttering under their breath that they thought they’d never thought they would ever have to #%*&#%@ do this sort of #$(@*$#@@#$ thing again in their #$(*#$@#$ lives.
The only reason I didn’t drop my bar – I mean my rifle – is I didn’t want to be yelled at and I didn’t want to be a quitter. Yes, I am a wee bit competitive. In the light, everyone can see you.
But I can hardly walk today. Pride can kill you. Or at least make you sore.