I did something crazy, impulsive and totally out-of-character last week.

I started a bootcamp program. Three times a week, for one hour, at the local park.

And now I'm paying for it.

Really.  I have never felt such incredible soreness in my thighs. I stare at the staircase in my house with fear and trepidation. How will I make it up? I grip the handrail with all my might, trying--and failing, to get myself up with the sheer strength of my arms. No success. My legs burn with each step.

Anything that requires any degree of squatting causes major pain. Even walking. I never realized that we keep our knees slightly bent when we walk.

I've devised a method to get into the car seat. Open the door. Lean against the top of the seat. Slide down the leather till I plop down in place. Allowing gravity to do some of the work helps. So does the fact that the seat is leather.

Going to the bathroom? Ouch each time. Getting back up? Forget about it. And with all the extra water I'm consuming, it is simply a chore I cannot avoid. So I grimace each time. 

Yet something keeps me going. I'm just not willing to quit yet. That would be too embarrassing. Too defeatist. I'm too ashamed to quit in front of the six other moms in the program--all of whom have been participating for months and are in incredible shape. I envy them all and am simultaneously inspired.

And, for some completely odd, inexplicable and perverse reason, I am enjoying this. Four sessions so far, and I've made it through each one. Forget that I can't always keep up. Forget that I'm always the last in the group to finish my squats and burpees and push ups and sit-ups. Forget that I look like Gumby on steriods, lacking form and finesse.  I don't care. It's all good.

Because I started something that is brutal and challenging and hard. And I am making it.

Even if I can't feel my thighs anymore.