The pain was indescribable. Excruciating. Illogical.

And then I finally quit hitting snooze and got up for my first 5:30 a.m. workout at Boot Camp.

In keeping with true cliched, mommyhood blog material, this is the story of how I try to have a waistline in addition to everything else. Except I actually think this will work, for two reasons:

  1. I am accountable to pick up my workout partner at 5:15 each morning (we can go up to six times a week – my week suddenly has only four days AT MOST… how ’bout you?)
  2. I’ve signed a deal with the devil. His name is Devan, and he is quite possibly the only male I’ve met in my life who is passionate about women’s bodies because he just wants us to be… fit? Yes. Seriously. He has a girlfriend and everything. I know, it’s really weird. But he’s serious, and so shall we be… again, back to that contract thingie.

This is somewhat new territory for me. (The whole “needing to lose 40 lbs” thing, that is, not the whole “signing my life away” thing; I’ve got two kids under two, remember? Keep up.)

So, like I was saying, I’ve never had to lose this much weight before. I had wacky-good metabolism until about 25, and then the weight loss I experienced was caused mostly by medications to stave off the pain of three back surgeries.

Then, it sort of went like this:

  • From 25 to 28, I battled my third back surgery, medication that caused weight gain, self-loathing caused by weight gain and the frequent package of Oreos. That’s right. Package.
  • At 28, I tried a new medication for my back and got fit through actual, genuine hard work and good nutrition. Man, was I glad when that was over!
  • Between 33 and 36, I gained a few pounds here and there but generally stayed in my usual size.
  • At 37, I had Charlie.
  • At 38, I had Mary Emma.
  • At 39, I had 40 extra pounds, an intimate relationship with two guys named Ben and Jerry and an infatuation with popcorn covered in olive oil and salt. Only that last part is (quasi) tolerable.
  • At 39-and-almost-a-half, I met the Devil. His name really is Devan; the alliteration is what we’ll call divine coincidence.

As mom to two young children, I recognize the benefits of achieving optimal health. I will gain confidence, inner and outer strength and my children’s gratitude for no longer having to listen to Mommy huff and puff up and down the stairs. All two of them.

Now it’s up to me. And the Devil Who Wears Under Armour.

A friend got me into this mess. She’s friends with someone who’s friends with the Devil. I guess it’s OK to admit I’m friends with the Devil, now, too, because this friendship should be life-changing. Butt changing, in particular.

Boot Camp sounds horrible and intimidating, but really it’s only gut-wrenching and petrifying. Did I mention each day begins at 5:30?

A.M.

I don’t do 5:30 a.m.; no, now I do 4:50 a.m., because that’s how long it takes me to hit snooze then roll from my bed to my feet, stagger to the bathroom where I’ve carefully laid out every possible article that needs to touch my body: contacts, workout clothes in sizes I’d never bought before, socks that aren’t as easy to put on my feet these days, and shiny sneakers that aren’t new but are the epitome of the term, “gently used.”

By 5:12, I’m in the minivan (I don’t even have the mental faculties to remember I’m childless and take the Honda instead… I might as well just embrace the cliche that is my desperate part-time housewife-self, drive the minivan and possibly begin wearing scrunchies again).

By 5:17, I’m at The Friend’s.

By 5:30, we’re running in place and dreading the next 45 minutes that promise to be tough. Our trainer is unexpectedly kind, given the whole “Boot Camp” tag on this adventure. He doesn’t yell mean things; that’s my role.

The Friend and I exchange glances between intervals. No words are necessary. (Likely because words require oxygen.)

But we were together, and in unity we find strength. Or confirmation that we’re both completely nuts.

Boot Camp convenes in an empty, local reception hall. While we sprint and sweat and swear during pre-dawn hours, revelers toast newly bat-mitzvah’d cherubs or get groovy to reunion tunes once night comes.

It’s kind of entertaining (you know, if I found anything pleasurable about this experience), in that we’re heaving and stretching and reaching and moaning surrounded by linen-covered tables and reception hall seating. If only each workout could be followed by a plated dinner… I might sprint that much harder. I might.

During particularly gruesome moments of Boot Camp (read, all 45 minutes), I envision the Devil storming a bar mitzvah and demanding that the rabbi lead party goers in squats and lunges. The rabbi tackles him, pins him and forces him to eat matzoh balls until he cries out that they are so good and carb-y! They are so good and carb-y!

We’ve gone twice. Two mornings in a row.

Thankfully, we couldn’t make it this morning. By “make it,” I mean, I am no longer capable of peeing without assistance or walking down stairs, and therefore I could not make it to today’s event.

I can walk up stairs. Up is easy. Usually there’s a railing that can be used like a pully system. But down is just excruciating. I have to essentially throw myself from the top of the stairs and hope the momentum helps my feet touch the stairs before my face does.

Every muscle group aches. My brain hurts from taking a roll call of all my aching muscles. It’s sad. It’s pathetic.

It’s the beginning.