And man, did I ever need it. A fondness for soft cheese and warm bread that I will hold with all my Gallic-ness requires some penance. Mix in a metabolism that’s sleeping sounder than Rip Van Winkle—could be age-related, but if you say so I will beat you—and too many late nights and VOILÀ. Me, drinking the Kool-Aid.
It’s called Jus de Boot Camp and all the cool kids are drinking it. I think. Maybe. Or not. Doesn’t matter because I’m parched and it’s doing the trick.
I wanted to bail on boot camp last Wednesday night. It was hot. I was tired. I felt lazy. I went anyway.
We worked hard because B-A was with the Spanish Inquisition in a past life. We started with frog jumps, tractor tire flips, and carrying sandbags over our shoulders while lunge walking across the soccer pitch. Plus, my all time favourite: the bear crawl, which has us lumbering across the field with our asses in the air like we just don’t care. I’ve blocked out the rest of the session, but I was clearly on a workout high when we finished because I agreed to join B-A and N for a ‘just for fun’ workout two days later.
We met on a driveway decorated with sidewalk chalk…
…and then we took a sledgehammer to a tractor tire. Please do not try this at home. Unless you’re in weeks 1 through 4 of your womanly cycle and then by all means, pound away. It’ll feel good.
So, the Kool-Aid, it’s a good one, and now our fearless leader has asked that all those willing (or no longer able to button up their pants) participate in a September-long Fresh Start program where the focus will be clean eating and increasing our physical activity. I saw this as the perfect time to take on food writing for local tourism. I’m still stuffed from dinner last night, but ohmygod the arugula hummus and cheese bread and homemade mozzarella and tomato-cucumber soup and sirloi…I think this is what lead me to drink the Kool-Aid.
The moral of this story is that food is good.
No, that’s not it.
The moral of this story is you can still eat all the food but be prepared to pay the Burpie Piper.
That’s kind of it.
The real moral of this story is that when you’re 45 and you love eating all the food and your shirt shrunk (or your bits grew) and you don’t feel like working out, you get your ass out the door anyway because afterwards you’ll feel great and your ass will thank you.