Fitness Boot Camp at 54
I just signed up for a fitness boot camp. Somewhere in the fine print I’m pretty sure it said “Participants under 40 preferred,” but I hit “Confirm” anyway. What’s the worst that can happen? I throw out my back reaching for a kettlebell and spend the next three days moving like a rusty lawn chair? I’m not trying to get shredded. I’m just hoping to stand up from the couch without making that involuntary “oof” sound. You know the one. It’s the official soundtrack of middle age. The instructor (Holly) is going to bark things like “Drop and give me twenty!” and my brain is going to respond with “How about I drop and give you a very sincere apology?” My knees already filed a formal complaint. My lower back is circulating a petition. I’m pretty sure my hamstrings are updating their résumés. Still, I paid the money. I put it on the calendar. I’m going. Because at some point you realize the alternative is slowly turning into a human throw pillow, and I’d rather be sore than soft. So here I am: 54, slightly terrified, and signed up for boot camp. If you see a guy in the back row moving with the grace of a confused flamingo, that’s me. Wave. Or better yet, bring ice packs. We’re going to need them. Stay tuned.. this going to be interesting AF.