As is so often the case when folks start getting serious in a relationship, priorities shift. Running, for example; becomes less important than going out for a romantic, artery clogging, delicious and fatty dinner with your new oily bo-hunk. Saturday morning hikes at your favorite secret spot in the forest take a back seat to the couch, homemade waffles with bacon dragged through syrup and cheese grits. Two years later you find yourself buying new pants and scratching your head because wasn’t it just yesterday you were a size 2 and could run into the house from school and eat the other half of that German Chocolate cake for a snack that you made the night before? Nothing happened. No poundage accrual. No extra miles to be counted on the bike or the feet or reps in the gym. You played and lived and that was that.

But it wasn’t yesterday, it was 20 years ago and what was once your body is turning into your mommas body. My body is not my own. I’m baffled by what I see when I look in the mirror and curse the inevitable metabolic slow down. Gray hair is one thing, a muffin top is quite another. No less natural, but considerably more offensive.

Knowing full well that my relationship happiness killed my motivation and that it would take the likes of a personal trainer or plastic surgery I can’t afford to help me get my ass back in shape, I did the next best thing: I signed up for a damn boot camp.

This should be interesting.

Starting October 2 (after a week of preparatory homework assignments), it includes a few painful reality checks including:
* Pre/Post Body Fat Percentage testing
* Pre/Post Weight analysis
* Pre/Post Biometric measurements
* Pre/Post Physical Fitness Test

If I don’t throw up or pass out the first day, I’ll consider it a success. If I drop some pounds and/or inches, I’ll consider it an effing miracle and write a letter to the Pope about having these people initiated into Sainthood.