STOP BOOT CAMP WOSRKOUTS
I recently bought a Groupon for a month of “unlimited” boot camp sessions at a Toronto fitness centre. I’m in relatively decent shape, I thought, and figured I could use a new workout challenge. The promise to burn hundreds of calories and trim my waistline sounded like a nobrainer, so I forked over the $ 29 and hit the gym. Within five minutes of my first class, I wanted to puke. And die. And leave. In any order necessary. But the 5 ft. woman instructing the class (whom I later learned was an ex- Marine), yelled so much that I was too terrified to find out what would happen if I ran away.
The class was horrible. It was a series of strenuous exercises, that were, quite frankly, dangerous. We were instructed to lift zillion- pound weights in between thousands of burpees. We rotated between leg presses with a partner reclined on our feet and sets of box jumps onto increasingly higher platforms.
The hour seemed like a lifetime. I regretted giving in to the alluring description of turning into my strongest, fittest self. By the time it was over, all I wanted was a cheeseburger.
What started as way to train military recruits and punish juveniles in place of prison, “boot camp” has taken on a new meaning in the fitness world. Sure, pushing the limits of one’s physical and mental strength might make sense for its intended purpose, but what about for the average person with moderate asthma and a mild cheese addiction? How does this abuse help us?
Gyms everywhere are offering their own versions of these classes. Indoor boot camp, outdoor boot camp, yoga boot camp, bikini boot camp, bridal boot camp. What ever happened to, I don’t know, squash or jogging; or a friendly game of soccer in the park? Why does working out have to be more intolerable than it should be? Maybe I’m sour from the emotional trauma I endured, and perhaps lots of people do, in fact, like these types of regimes.
While there are undeniable benefits from sweating to the point of dehydration, I prefer to get my endorphins from running and yoga. Maybe I’ll never be my “fittest self,” but at least I won’t be crying in a gym locker room.