I did my first boot camp last night. I thought I might die, but I lived to post another post. Actually, I must not have been working very hard because I’m not even sore today, just sleepy. *Sigh.* I mean, I was glad not to be walking bowlegged around the office this morning, but why spend that extra hour at the gym if I don’t even make it count, right?
Before I even went to the class, though, I came home from work super hungry and decided to have a snack. I knew there was about half a carrot cake sitting on the counter, and I felt like I should definitely eat something before I worked out, so I cut myself a piece. As soon as JP saw me, he said, “You don’t need to eat that cake right before you work out.”
“But I’m really hungry,” I whined.
“If you eat all that sugar right before a hard workout, you’re going to make yourself sick.”
Knowing he was probably right but very disappointed because I had been daydreaming about that cake all day AND didn’t really want to go to this class but knew I would feel guilty if I didn’t, I proceeded to throw a low-level tantrum. I stomped around the house for the next 30 minutes, sighing exaggeratedly and yelling up the stairs that the only reason I even go to the gym AT ALL is because he said I was a fatty magoo and is consistently hurting my feelings. (That is in no way true, but sometimes when I’m mad I like to throw out random accusations.)
Alas, being the completely reasonable adult he is, JP just ignored the four year old who had invaded his home and waited patiently for his 26-year-old fiancé to come back.
You might think this makes me really lucky—but wouldn’t I be luckier if I wasn’t such a nut?