June 4th, 2018

I am horrible at dates. I marginally get by knowing most of the major ones, kid’s birthdays (although with five kids that gets sketchy at times), anniversaries, etc. Most of the time I have to refer to a calendar to confirm that I indeed have the right date. I am generally in the ballpark, if not on the correct date. Even then, those landmarks sneak up on me and catch me completely flatfooted. There is one date that I remember with clarity, it did not sneak up on me this year, and that is June 4th, 2018.

This date has absolutely no major significance to anyone but me. No one was married, died, baptized, and not a single one of my myriads of children can claim that day as the day they excruciatingly popped out of my body. I will however remember that day vividly. That was one of the most miserable days of my life. I thought I was going to die.

On that date one year ago, I started attending an exercise bootcamp style class at 4:45 am.

I was 6 months away from turning 40 years old and that hit me pretty hard and fast out of no where. I woke up one day and decided that I needed to get fit. Not skinny, but just fit. Fit for myself and fit to chase my larger than the typical brood around without them completely sucking the life out of me.

I did a lot of soul searching and research to find the perfect place. So, on the 3rd of June, I did a five minute google search to find a place within 10 minutes of my house and that had a class that would start as early af. I found only one place that met those requirements (I live in the middle of Nowhere, Alabama) and signed up for my first class. (Okay, research and soul searching is a lie. Seriously, I am a mom of five. Ain’t nobody got time for that.)

I rolled out of bed half asleep and headed to my only exercise option I had found 12 hours earlier. I walked through the door and there were 5 people standing there. One of the faces in the group I recognized. I felt my heart drop, because now I was going to have effing accountability. Mother bleeping bleep bleep bleep bleepey bleep. (That is a kind and sanitized version of what I was truly thinking.) Turns out, that was only the beginning of the many Mother bleeping bleep bleep bleep bleepey bleep’s that I would do.

The day I started going to bootcamp, I could not do much. I sweat like nothing I had ever experienced in my life. I sweated and got red and it was just scary ugly. I thought through the whole class, I was surely going to die. I didn’t. I was miserable, until I wasn’t. This magical thing happened and I got an after high. That had never happened before. I went back the next day and the same things happened again.

I just kept showing up. Almost 4 days a week, every week. A year later and I showed up once again. I still suck. I still sweat and get red and it is still just scary ugly. However, I am stronger now. I can do so many things I would have never dreamed of a year ago. I am not skinnier. I love wine and sweets too much. However, you could probably bounce a quarter off my a$$.

I wear funny shirts like how I hate to run and fall a good bit for no apparent reason. Today, my sports bra busted open, I got stuck under a 35# weight someone had to lift off of me, and I broke yet another rubber band for pull-ups. I am still behind lots of people who religiously attend the class (these people are beasts), but I am guessing I could probably run circles around the average bear.

The day means nothing to anyone but me. However, I am super proud. I have told about anyone who will mistakenly spare me a minute. Fair warning, don’t say ‘Hi’ to me unless you are prepared to hear about what happened on this day June 4th, 2018!