Head full of cotton.

Hello blog readers.

I'm so sorry to have neglected you for most of the week. I got sidelined with a very nasty head cold/allergy thing that has got me stuck on the couch. (Still making it to Boot Camp, though.) I have much to tell you and promise to post as soon as I can get out from under all this cotton in my head.

George, I heart you....this week.

Ah, another week facing George. This time the husband forgot to dig him out of his hiding space in time, so I had to find out where it was and dig it out. (Under the sleeping toddler's bed, for those interested.) Now he'll have to find a new hiding spot for the scale until next week. Dear husband, if you're reading this, may I suggest *not* anywhere our whirling dervish may spot it and bang it to death? Kthnxbai.

After I went and got George from his dark enclosure, I left him on the floor for a bit and went back to bed. I was making myself wait. I wasn't going to let this beginning obsession rule me this morning. I was going to wait like a nice, patient person and take whatever George read out to me gracefully.

I waited until 6:10 am and finally rolled out of bed and got on the scale. I didn't look down the entire time until I saw the blue light flash twice. My weight was locked in. I looked down.

230.2

Three pounds down from the last weigh-in.

Wow.

George, you're being nice this week. You've finally decided to reward me for all my hard work. Thanks, George. See you next week and not a moment before!

A secret obsession.

I have a problem. A big problem. And if I don't get in control of it, it's going to turn into something ugly. Something that A&E will make a special out of. I didn't think I'd had a problem. I thought everyone on a diet or weight loss track did this. I thought it was normal. Maybe even a little good for me. It wasn't. It was affecting every day and if I didn't like what I saw, it ruined an entire day before it barely had started.

I'd talked a big talk on this blog about only seeing George once a week. That's all it was. Big talk. I was obsessed. I wasn't weighing myself once a week, or even once a day. I was getting on that scale up to five times a day.

Five. Times. A. Day.

When I got up in the morning. After the bathroom first thing in the morning. After I ate, to see if there was a difference. Before I went to bed. In the middle of the night to see if the weight was coming down. After a bad calorie meal, or carbohydrate-laden snack. I was on that scale. If it was up, I was depressed and snippy. If it was down, I was happy and tried to keep it that way. I was still tracking calories, but if the scale lied the next morning and the weight hadn't come off in any increment, I made myself eat less. Or cut down the salt. Or drink more water.

I told myself I was just learning how foods effect my body. Carbs were bad, how bad I could tell you by stepping on that scale. I could tell you everything, if I could just step on that scale. I couldn't leave it behind. I'd pass it in the bedroom and just feel compelled to step on it. It was a siren song from the other room, calling me to it. I couldn't resist getting on the scale and seeing what the number was. But I still didn't think it was unhealthy. Just dedicated. I wanted to prove myself responsible with my diet this time. I wanted to know how foods reacted and what the scale would see in my discipline.

I had no idea. But maybe, I did. I'd linked my LoseIt! program to Twitter. And soon enough, each loss was duly logged into the program. It started showing losses for three days straight. Then four. It wasn't until I'd logged five days of straight loss that questions came at me.

Jen of Jen In Real Life and Kat of Kat's Adventures in Dietland asked me how often I weighed. Once a day, I replied, lying through my internet's teeth. They both expressed some concern at the frequent weigh ins. I did confess that I let it rule me a bit too much. Then, I really thought about it. If once a day seemed a little overboard, what was five, six times a day?

I seized the moment I had and called the husband into the room. "Hide my scale," I told him. Hide it and don't let me know where you put it. Bring it out on Wednesday. That's my weigh in day and not before. I got a funny look, but bless him, he actually did it. I asked him to make sure I wouldn't stumble across it. He assured me I wouldn't. It took everything I had all weekend long not to beg him to drag it back out. Every time I walked into the bedroom, I saw the spot it used to be. I realized that every time I walked past it, I'd gotten on it. It felt like I'd lost a limb. To not do something I'd become so accustomed to doing any time I'd felt, it was just weird.

It wasn't until it had been taken away from me, I realized what a dangerous path I'd been walking. If I was getting on the scale that many times in the day, what else would my obsession have turned into?

I can't say I'm cured, it's only been three days. I can say that without the concern of a wonderful couple of friends, I would've been headed down a very dark path.

This @#$#%&*! ankle!

I'm trying really hard not to be disappointed in myself this week at Boot Camp. I've been doing great moving up in the weight intervals. I'm able to endure more, and actually focus on my form. Those are good things. But this blasted ankle still will not let me jog, run, jump or walk even remotely fast. Every time I think I have enough to keep going, I get those sharp pains on the top of the ankle and I have to slow down.

It's infuriating!

Back during the first Boot Camp, I would've jumped at the chance to slow it down and do easier exercises. Now that I've been at it for a while, it's driving me up the wall to not go all the way! My trainer, S is sympathetic and won't let me do a lot of the exercises that will make it flare up. I really hate having this injury! I still have the energy to keep going, but not the physical ability.

Just the other day it was the 2 mile run exercise. I was really excited to be able to do this again and compare my times. The last time I attempted this, I got around the route once for a time of 15:06. I was itching to beat it this time 'round.

We all gathered at the front of the high school (who is kind enough to let us use their facilities) and off we went. I got two steps in and a sharp pain went right from the middle of my ankle straight up through my calf. DAMMIT! Nooooooo! And there went my ankle. I hobbled the entire lap around. I got to the halfway time and one of the helpers told me my time. 8:06. There was no way to beat my old time with a huge hill coming up and limping. I was crestfallen. I gimped the whole way to the finish line. I was crying by the time I got there. Some was from pain, but mostly it was disappointment. The workout was to go twice around. I could barely get once. And my time? Well, it was a horrid 16:19. Gah. Not good. S told me to catch my breath and get to work on some kettle bells. I was not allowed to even attempt the second lap. But, I still had the energy! I had barely broken a sweat (compared to the last time where I was soaked halfway through). I was ready to go. My ankle however, was not. Even attempting to do the kettle bell work it was yelling at me. I had to go to a lighter weight and kibosh some of the exercises that had me put all my weight on my ankle.

I'm ready to move up. I want to go go go! I don't want to be last. I'm finally getting the weight off, and I want to keep pushing. But ankle says no. Ankle is a jerk. You hear me, fix yourself or we're gonna have problems!

I know I can't bully my ankle into healing. It does make me feel better, though. I really thought I was going to kill this camp and do some amazing things. Now, it's just going to be a struggle to maintain with this injury.

I think S knew I was feeling pretty down. She's been really good about encouraging me and letting me know what subs are equal to the running/jumping exercises. But it doesn't quite make up for not being able to keep up with the rest of the camp.

So, fine. I'll sit. And be still. And keep off my ankle. I'll always wear shoes with support (okay, *most* of the time). And I'll take care of myself so I can come back full force.

But I won't like it. You can't make me. You stupid @#$#%&*! ankle!

George, we need to talk.

It's not me, George. It's you.

I think we need to make some space in our relationship. I see you every morning, and while the time we've spent over the past year has been great, there's something I need to tell you.

You have too much control over me. You can make or break my day. You can make me a happy girl just by showing me what I want to see. But the next day, you can take all of it away and be mean. I just can't take the ups and downs with you. I need to be free for a little while. I work so hard, and I can't have that destroyed because you want to be petty.

We'll still see each other, I promise. Just maybe, once a week. Ok?

My trainer hearts me!

So, last week started the new camp time of 7am with my new favorite trainer. In fact, I got TWO of my favorite trainers because the camp got so huge. Am I a lucky girl, or what!?

The first week, I'm rocking out with the noobs and perfecting my technique. I missed some of this being in the evening camp, so I was super happy to learn a few things. First day at camp was the 60 second assessment. Pushups, squats and sit-ups. I freakin' hate sit-ups. I can do them, but my core is still weak and I hate how low of a number I get on those. I managed to do okay and get some decent numbers. I'll post them at the end of this camp, so we can measure my success together! (Yeah, that totally sounded like a PBS special. Sorry.) I was happy to tell everyone that would listen that I was a returning camper and how much I loved it. I'm pretty sure they all thought I was crazy, but they saw what I meant the second day.

And that's where the awesome came in! That awesome would be me! We went over some more basics like kettle bell swings, squat high pulls, wall balls and slam balls. And the dreaded body rows. Those are the hardest damn things to do right. It's like a pull up, but you'll lying down and you pull your body up to be parallel with the bar. It's hard, it hurts my hands but I can rep 'em out if I do them in small increments. So, we start off with some weighted bar work. Nothing fancy, but I did get the heavier bar to work with. The thing felt like a feather in my hands. After all the non-progress from last camp, that was the LAST thing I expected. This is turning out to be better than I thought!

Onto the kettle bells. Okay, I have a confession to make to you. I. Love. Kettle Bells. Love love love them. I don't know why. Maybe because I love how they make me feel afterward. They are cardio just as much as they are weight training. I love that efficiency. I really do. We're doing swings and I ask trainer S what weight I should try. She cocks her head and points to one. It's a 25 pounder. Alright. I'm game. Let's go. I pick it up and start to swinging. Oh. My. God. THIS is how kettle bell swings are supposed to feel. This is great! I can feel my core. I can feel my lower back engage. And I'm not knocking myself over or hitting myself in the hoohah. (Not a fun experience, not fun at all.) Let's try the 25 lbs one for the squat high pulls too. Even THAT feels great. I'm really starting to like this morning camp. I already feel challenged, but in a good way.

We move onto the medicine balls and S shows us the slam balls and wall balls. All easy stuff. I move up a little on the weight from the little 5s to the 12 and 15 lbs. It feels pretty good and I'm throwing higher than ever on the wall balls with the 12 lbs.

Now it's time for the body rows. My other favorite trainer, J is running that exercise and tells me to hop on in there. Then he instructs all the newbies to watch me.

*gulp*

Really, J? ALL of them? I get under there and I get all positioned. "Alright, rep 'em out!" And off I go! I dig my heels in, get my hands positioned and lo and behold I got my chest all the way up to that bar. All. The. Way. Never done that before in my life. I repped out five of them super fast and I hear all the newbies around  me. They're actually going "oooh" and "ahhh". I stopped and sat up and told them, "If my fat ass can do it, so can all of you."

You know what happened next? Get this. They clapped. They freakin' clapped. I'm pretty sure I've never been clapped at in my life. That went down in the history books, folks. It really did. Later, I went up and thanked J for letting me look like a rock star. He told me, he didn't make me look like I rock star. I did it all on my own.

And that people, is why I'm in love with my 7am boot camp. This week all bets are off as the harder workouts come into play. I'm ready to go, but I'm going to try to focus more on my form and less on "finishing". I'm going to set a goal each workout and if I meet it, great. If not, then I know what to shoot for next time.

I wish...

I wish you could understand.

I wish you could understand that I wasn't always like this.

I wish you could understand that I need your support, not your derision.

I wish you could understand that I can't have bad food around me.

I wish you could understand that I'm not punishing you.

I wish you could understand that I'm not punishing myself.

I wish you could understand that I need to do this, and so do you.

I wish you could understand that it takes work to put the meal on the table.

I wish you could understand that I'm trying to teach our son good food habits.

I wish you could understand that yes, one little piece, one little bite won't end the world, but it will make me want more.

I wish you could understand that it's not easy for me either.

I wish you could understand that I'm doing this for me, for you and for our son.

I wish you could understand that it's hard work.

I wish you could understand that comparing me to other people still hurts.

I wish you could understand that when I need to do something for myself, I don't need the guilt that always comes with it.

I wish you could understand that I need this and not resent me for it, or try to have it for your own.

I wish you could understand that I'm not wanting the quick results, I want the ones that will last.

I wish you could understand asking me when I'll be done doesn't make me want to finish faster.

I wish you could understand that weekends are so much harder for me because you make them that way.

I wish you could understand a salad from a bar restaurant is not healthy.

I wish you could understand that I need you to be patient with me.

I wish you could understand that it's hard for me not to pick the food off the kid's plate.

I wish you could understand that my little accomplishments mean so very much to me.

I wish you could understand that this isn't just for me, it's about me and changing my life.

I wish you could understand that I need to be in control, because when I'm not I won't stick with it.

I wish you could understand that this is me now and I'm starting to like it.

I wish you could understand.

Oh George, not again.

George, I thought we were cool. But I can see you're still holding a grudge. I know I gained those four pounds all my own. I know you tried to warn me. I didn't listen. I said I was sorry.

Now you're just being petty. You know I worked hard at boot camp. So why are you holding out on me? Seriously. I said I'd make it up to you. I made good dinners, took extra walks. What else do you want from me? I can't starve.

Fine. Be that way. You better be over this by next week.

235.4, says George. .4 from losing those whole 4 pounds from last week. So close. But *someone* is still angry.

Thanks George. Thanks a bunch.

Eating your emotions, one pie at a time.

It's been a rough week, this last week. We've been dealing with some personal junk in Leaving Fatville. I've been eating my way through this last week with some disastrous results. A four pound gain to sport, which is definitely not what I wanted at weigh-in. I thought it was just this week off from the Boot Camp, but it's been more than that. Usually, I can stay on track pretty well and eat good food. Even cook more, since I have the time. But I ate an emotional track all the way through this week and into the weekend.

We're not talking about one bad choice here, either. We're talking nachos. Gooey, ooey, cheesy nacho goodness. And key lime pie. Not a slice. Not two slices. Two thirds of the pie. That's not just bad, it's epic. I'll cop to some PMS eating, but this was binge eating from back in the depression days.

There it is. Depression. Something was making me depressed. I racked my brain. Work was okay, stressful but ok. Home life, ok. Nothing really huge or unusual to report. No car troubles. No crazy bills. So, what was it?

I took me four days to realize why I was so unhappy. Why I was eating my feelings. The husband and I were talking about moving in with the Mother-In-Law to save money this coming August. It seemed like a great opportunity to save money, and have some built-in child care when schedules ran a little hectic. At least, it started out that way. Little issues kept popping up. One was there was smoking in the household. Not tolerated around little one. Ever. It was resolved that it would only be done outside. Okay. I could handle that. There would be more room, but we'd have to make some modification to our stuff and the space we'd be in. The munchkin would be downstairs from us, which means middle of the night episodes would involve a flight of stairs. That kinda sucks. Especially in the middle of beginning potty training. The list of cons started to stack up and up and up. Suddenly, it didn't seem like such a good idea. But I kept my reservation to myself. Maybe I was overreacting. I have a tendency to see worst case scenarios. I can own that. But it just kept stacking up. The more my gut started to tell me this was not going to be what we wanted, the more I ate that feeling away. I ate until I felt like garbage. Until I was so full, I couldn't move off the couch if my life depended on it.

We decided to go there for a visit on Sunday. Maybe seeing the space again and talking through the changes, we'd be able to see it better and figure out some solutions. It started within two minutes after stepping foot out of the car. The husband of the MIL was smoking. Ugh. Gross. Then he reached down to hug my son WITH THE LIT CIGARETTE IN HIS MOUTH. Okay, I agreed to not smoking inside. But seriously, how is getting centimeters from my son's face with a lit cigarette better!? Not cool.

The rest of the day progressed into a downward spiral of regret. After the MIL decided not to feed my kid the mac and cheese he asked for at lunchtime and instead subbed low fat string cheese, crackers and half a banana, I'd reached my last straw. My kid is an active kid. He has trouble gaining weight. He's a skinny damn kid. She knows this. Why would she feed the kid snack food for a LUNCH? It was then that I realized her food issues (too numerous to detail) were going to affect every meal she fed to my kid in my absence. Every one of them. Seriously lady, just 'cause you hate food, doesn't mean you can starve my kid. (Or listen when he tells you no. He's two. No is ALL he says.)

A little light bulb went off. Moving in with these people was a bad bad BAD idea. I didn't trust them with my kid. I didn't trust them with my family. I couldn't do it. We could've saved so much money, but I just couldn't do it. I do not want a kid with food issues. I'm still reprogramming my husband to eat decent, non-processed food. And it was obvious the cigarette smoking, while limited to outside, was still going to be exposed to my son over and over again.

That night I sat down with the husband and laid it out on the table. I told him I couldn't do it. I couldn't move in and have a clear conscience about it. After our son's "lunch" that she saw nothing wrong with, I put my foot down. We might be on the tightest budget ever but we are not moving in there. It didn't take long to convince him. I'm happy he saw the light. In fact, he even confessed he'd been having reservations about it, too.

And magically, the food binge ended. Just like that. Monday morning was bright and fresh. I worked out, I felt great. I ate good food. I meal-planned and cooked for the beginning of the week. It was like the last week had never happened.

It scared me to see how easily not dealing with something can spiral so quickly into bad habits. Bad eating, bad feelings, all of it. It was so easy to just give up and go back to overeating. Emotions are not to be eaten. They have a terribly high calorie count.

What kind of eater are you?

This week off from Boot Camp I've discovered some things about myself. And I need to be brutally honest with myself about these discoveries.

1. I am a stress eater. Not in the conventional sense, but because when I'm stressed I work too much and I get too lazy to cook. When I get too lazy to cook, I order out and I almost always over eat and order poor choices. Which leads to being tired all the time, and the cycle repeats. It's ugly, folks. Just plain ugly.

2. I am a PMS eater. I crave bread. So much bread. I could take or leave chocolate, but when that week hits me all I crave is bread. Bread dipped in olive oil, biscuits, rolls... anything I can get my hands on. I can't limit myself. I will gorge on bread and bread products. It is not pretty. (And god help you if you get in front of me trying to get bread. The husband nearly lost a limb once.)

3. I'm a see evil, eat evil eater. Deep down I love good food. I really really do. But when someone around me eats badly, I feel it give me license to do the same. I have a hard time keeping strong when someone orders nachos RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME. They smell so good, I can't resist eating a bite. That bite becomes a quarter of the whole plate and then I feel awful. (Physically and emotionally.)

Now, I know completely avoiding these three things is not always possible. I'm pretty sure that second one is gonna happen every damn month. So, there's got to be ways around or to lessen these from happening. Constantly being in Boot Camp is not always a possibility, so I can use that. I can't eliminate stress from my life, or I'd be a hermit shut in. And I'm pretty sure that would stress me out, too. I'm positive that I can't rule what other people are eating around me. I'm just not interested in being that militant, and I'm pretty sure the husband would be more than pissed if I started ordering for him.

So, what's the solution?

I have no idea. But I'm pretty sure that recognizing these three ways of eating is pretty important. Stopping myself and asking if I'm eating because I'm tired/stressed/lazy, PMS-ing or because someone else is eating around me may help identify the situations.

Maybe the key is just paying attention. All too often we spend our time looking after everyone but ourselves. (A big theme in the Biggest Loser show, too.) I guess it's time for me to look after me. I need to make those better choices for me, not just for my family.

Exposing myself.

It's not what you think! It was one time... for art class. Yeah, art class. Really!

All joking aside, what I did do, is join the Exposed Movement. All too often people look in the mirror and hate what they see. Maybe it doesn't match what's in your mind. Maybe it doesn't match what you're reading or seeing on television. Maybe it's just not where you wanted to be. We pick ourselves apart until there's nothing left of our self-esteem.

The Exposed Movement began as a post on Eating Journey's blog and has gained some serious momentum. The premise is simple: we should love our bodies and celebrate them. So I am, in a very public manner. After all, dear readers, I am now accountable to you.

We may not all be where we'd like, but that doesn't mean we can't appreciate ourselves at the moment. Me, I'm pretty happy with my strength and my endurance. Things I didn't know I possessed until I started Boot Camp. I'm happy I see changes with every week and every camp. I've lost 55 pounds in a year. I've lost over 10 inches in my hips and waist each and a few more everywhere else, and I've gone down over 4 pant sizes.

I'm proud of where I am *right now*. I'm not done by a long shot, but I'm happy to celebrate my accomplishments. It may not be a supermodel's body, but it's mine.

Falling off the good food wagon.

Well, I fell off the good food wagon this week with a resounding THUD. Got on the scale and lo and behold, I had gained not only the 2 pounds I had originally though, but TWO more. Four whole pounds. Four. I'm seriously thinking of renaming George to Douchebag, but to be honest, it's not his fault. It's mine.

I started thinking about how all this happened. It really only started from Friday to Tuesday morning. That's a relatively short amount of time to gain four pounds. First it was the easter candy, (given to a two year old, why I'll never know), then it was some bread dipped in olive oil and cheese. Then onto some greasy pizza and birthday cake on Sunday. And let's cap it all off with a double cheeseburger from McDonald's. Wow. I ate like crap for over an entire long weekend. I'm surprised it's only four pounds.

Why do we eat bad foods? Is it stress, sorrow, boredom, availability?

This time, it was a combination of boredom and availability. I was throwing myself on the fire, really. I mean, who gives a two year old a basket full of candy. What, as a good mom, could I have done? Eat it, of course. Now, I know that's not really how it happened, but that's how my brain rationalizes that intake of crappy food. The kid didn't need it, but I did. Same goes for throwing food away. Whatever the kid doesn't eat, gets saved, snacked on, or stolen off the plate all to the detriment of my calorie counts. It was there, it sounded good, it tastes good and gimme more. Not exactly the way to keep up the healthy eating trend.

Healthy eating is hard. It's also expensive. That would be another main contributor to this week's stunning four pound gain. Good, healthy and organic food is expensive. The budget is tight in our house, and the more it's tightened, the more grocery shopping feels the pinch. Bad food is cheap, it's abundant and when your pocketbook is doing the deciding, it's all too easy to end up with a house full of crap food.

Not that any of this is an excuse to eat like garbage. There are ways to eat well and cheaply if you're willing to put in the work. It's obvious this weekend, I was not willing to put in the work. I didn't cook and meal plan, or pack snacks or even really pay attention to what I was eating. As a result, my scale told me exactly what I needed to hear.

So, fine, George. I hear you. Message is loud and clear. Quit being lazy. Throw out the damn candy. Get off my ass and put the work in to lose this weight.

My trainer hates me: The Conclusion.

So the deed is done. And I feel so much better.

I met with trainer S on Friday morning to discuss my experience with my Boot Camp Adventure and some goals over the next two camps. I started out with how I had been feeling in my evening camp. Lonely, unsupported and generally unhappy with results or feedback. S told me that I'm definitely not the first person to tell her about that. As we got into specifics, however, her jaw hit the floor. I think she knew of the problems, but maybe not the extent. I'm pretty sure when I told her the trainer's assistant had been recruited for another class that had NOTHING to do with the regular Boot Camp and no longer showed to ours, that it was news to her. And definitely not on the approved list.

I'm totally kicking myself for waiting so long to talk to S. I should've come forward right when things started to go bad and find a solution. I had told S I wasn't comfortable speaking directly to M about the issues. Rational or not, I had a fear that it would not only have not been well received, but I would have been punished in some fashion during the workouts. I was extremely surprised to hear S say that she would agree with that, and completely understood my hesitation.

So, here's the best part. She's going to be my trainer for the new 7am class that starts next week. Not only will I not have to jump between one class and another depending on the hubby's schedule, I'll get to work with my favorite trainer!

Now for the rest of the meeting. We sat down and talked about some long-term goals and camp goals. I confessed I really felt like I lost out on some good time this camp because I wasn't be supported well. So, we came up with a plan on how to better maximize this camp and what I can focus on to see some more results. That first camp was awesome, and I saw some serious changes in my weight and my measurements. But that was couch to heck of a lot of movement. Now, my body's onto me and I have to figure out how to make it work where I want it to work.

Since S already knew of some of my physical limitations, we sat down and tried to come up with some good substitutions for the regular exercises I KNOW I can't do. (Jogging, running, lunges, squat jumps, excessive jump roping and hops.) She even went further and said she'd come up with a basic set of subs for me that I can call on without having to stop her and ask during the workout. (And lose precious time on those lovely endurance workouts.) We made up a list of things I liked, exercise I enjoyed outside of Boot Camp (hello yoga! hello dance!) and what areas I wanted to see some change in on my body. We also set some long term goals. I told S by the end of this whole shebang, I wanted to jog and run without pain. I wanted to tone and tighten and get to where I can do lunges and have my knee not scream at me. I wanted to work with heavier weights so I can start sculpting some of these muscles rather than build straight mass. It's time for that corset of core muscles to start pulling in and makin' me a hot mama.

But here's the best part of the whole meting. I also told S about my super secret goal. And I'm going to tell you. Are you ready?

Really ready?

Here it is: I want to become a Boot Camp trainer. I want to incorporate all of this wonderful fitness I have found into my every day life and bring it to other people. I mean, if I came from the far, far other side of fit and manage to become a trainer, how much could I convince people to get off the couch and move? So, that's what I told her. S told me the best thing I have ever heard. She told me if anyone can do it, I can. And I should. It's an awesome goal and one that she'd be honored to help me achieve.

So there it is, dear readers. I'm going to become a Boot Camp trainer. I won't give up my day job just yet, but I definitely found something that makes me happy. I smile just thinking about it. (My husband thinks I'm nuts, but that's okay with me. He's more of a gear head than a gym rat.)

I can't wait to start my Boot Camp Adventure all over again come next Monday. I think it's going to be such a different experience than I've had so far. I can't wait to see what I can do next!