The Eve of Boot Camp

I was told this isn't sufficient exercise as I had perceived.

Take a gander at the frightening evidence of my poor, neglected figure:

* Me, forbidding any and all pairs of eyes to sneak a peek at my bikini bod before I feverishly wiggle my way out of a cover up and into the pool so as to magically appear a blurry mid-air blip.

*Me, in serious fashion, with serious poise, while giving myself a serious look in the vast expanse of my bathroom mirror, maintaining a steady elevated blow dryer arms stance for a whole three minutes to heroically fight off ever encroaching teacher arms.

* Me, flinging myself onto the bed at the feet of my waking husband, shouting "I. Have. Nothing. To Wear." Under my breath, "That. Fits."

* And me, doing a five minute ab workout on Kinnect. Later that day, marveling at the mystery of my abs feeling like limp string cheese one fatal step away from a collapse. Then, considering the only logical answer: a five minute ab workout on the Kinnect turned my abs into string cheese.

Tomorrow morning I'm meeting my sister in the parking lot of her workplace so early my husband will be in bed thinking my absence is just that of my usual sip coffee, stare into the morning routine.  In that parking lot I will wonder if I missed shaving any spots on my legs as I might encounter a wildly unwarranted close communion of workout intimacy with my lovely brethren of boot camp.

Let's hope this camp is nothing like 4H camp where rats ate through my underwear and I resorted, for the rest of the painfully cheery week, to sleeping on top of very near a friend, who was fortunate enough to have 1st claimed the top bunk. No, I don't ever need to harbor that close of a sleeping relationship with anyone other than my husband, and I definitely don't feel like reuniting with any creatures of the night anytime soon.  One thing's for sure.  I'm guessing, just as palpable as my me-losing-all-sense-of-privacy-as-I-sleep-atop-my-friend-while-I-wait-for-the-rats-to-come-again-tonight-to-peruse-what-they-may-of-my-underthings misery which was nicely paired with an ingratiating happiness only scientifically possible at a camp where parents are not witness to your horror at said unnatural craft toting, song singing, camp counselor joy to stamp out all joys... I will also be in similar misery tomorrow while my body writhes in pain, and I'll look up to see Miss Boot Camp instructor smiling at my contorted, wincing, pain.

Wish me luck as I strive to hold in immature giggles of ineptitude aside my sister [who, mind you, is actually already in shape] and I gather a little enthusiasm, energy, and umph to snap my string cheese abs in half.