EVERY inch of my body is in pain.
If I can get out of bed I walk like I’ve enjoyed too many $1 drink nights at university.
It hurts to cough.
Even breathing is an effort.
But no, I am not dying.
I joined boot camp.
Obviously not my idea.
However, when my gym junkie work colleague Lana suggested, then coerced and finally forced me to do it with her, somewhere in the front of my mind were images of me, barely clad in a bikini, at Noosa beach this Christmas.
It wasn’t a pretty sight – barely family display only.
Yes, I may have let myself go a little in the past few years.
I became so used to eating whatever I wanted and not putting on weight, once I realised that wasn’t the case anymore, I had gone up two dress sizes.
Damn you 3pm sugar craving!
I wasn’t always unfit.
I used to play multiple sports at once.
Judo, gymnastics, softball, dancing, athletics, basketball, touch football.
I went to the North Queensland Games for judo and softball for crying out loud!
So what happened?
Children. That’s what happened.
Once I stopped breastfeeding, which sucked the kilos as well as the life out of me, my metabolism decided to go on holidays.
And never returned.
Then I got tired. I literally sleepwalk through most days.
So any thought of going to the gym or running 5km could go and get stuffed.
I’d never done a boot camp before so I pictured super fit trainers screaming at really fat people pulling tyres up hills a la the Biggest Loser.
I was right, except for the scores of really fat people.
Most people were already fit, apart from me and a few others.
You just have to see the look of sheer panic in their eyes when the trainer tells us we’re going to do 25 push-ups, sit-ups, squats, burpees, mountain climbers and star jumps while sprinting 200m in between each set.
And that was just the fitness test.
Thankfully, mainly due to my competitive nature, I did not come last.
When we started running up a sand hill with tyres attached to our waists, I started to doubt myself.
Because we were in pairs, I had Lana to get me through.
‘‘Don’t you dare make us come last,’’ she supportively screeched in my ear.
The next session, I almost lost my cool.
I understand now what the Biggest Loser contestants go through when they throw tantrums, threaten to leave or cry uncontrollably.
I was almost there.
I had been running uphill and down for I don’t know how long (and running is not my strength) when the tears started welling up.
‘‘How did I let myself get like this?’’ I thought.
I was angry and frustrated. At myself.
I could feel the huge ugly sobs about to start.
But Lana was there to save the day.
‘‘Keep your shit together man,’’ she said, forcefully grabbing my shoulders.
She shoots me her scary warning look that screams ‘‘Don’t embarrass me’’.
So I blink away my tears, swallow the huge lump in my throat and get my shit together.
Now four weeks in, I can actually run more than 100m, do a plank for about two and a bit minutes and do a proper burpee without looking like a beached whale.
I have also found muscles I had forgotten I had (and plenty I never realised I had) including one part of my long lost six-pack.
Noosa beach here I come.
Alright, maybe in one-piece bathers this year, but look out 2018.