Camp Karma

As y’all know, in a deluded pre-Christmas indulgence moment, I committed to going to fat camp with my friend Sam.   Now, this made a lot of sense in November as I was contemplating weeks of Christmas drinks and parties and post-drinks/parties hangover lunches, not to mention a week in the Fat Capital of the World, Houston, followed by a tour of all Flavors O’ Fat in San Francisco and New Orleans – Cajun, Creole, French, Mexican and good ol’ American….. 

So, in a desperate bid to really enjoy all of this and to assuage the guilt of this 5 star indulgence, I succumbed to the suggestion that what I needed was to plan for the remedy – a week of exercise and healthy food.   

But, I’m not stupid. 

I nay-sayed the suggestion that Sam posed for a boot-camp “holiday” in the middle of the country with bunk-style accommodation.    I am not a camper.  (and, in case, you need to be reminded of this, check out http://countrydropper.blogspot.com/2010/10/perfect-festival.html) 

Nor, do I do group accommodation – I never stayed in a hostel when I was a poor student, why on earth would I opt for this now that I have a decent  income?  And, February in the UK is just asking for cold.  And wet.  Again, not interested.

But, when she suggested Spain, I started listening.   I could definitely get comfortable with the idea of a week of good health in the sun. 

In February – months away.   In Spain, miles away.

Easy decision in November.

But, even as the week approached, I was almost looking forward to it.   Just as everyone is broke and miserable, completely over the cold and snow and adopting a rickets-like Vitamin D-deficient pallor, where am I headed, but a week in sunny Spain where I had already paid for everything, save for the multiple hour-long massage sessions and manicure/pedicure I had booked?  A week in a beautiful hacienda with a giant jacuzzi bathtubs, mountainous views, cozy log fires and a personal  Michelin trained chef preparing delicious and healthy meals and snacks 5 times a day.  Now, I knew that, obviously, there would be exercise.  But, the brochure also said that we would have personal time to enjoy our holiday. 

So, this is all sounding fabulous to me:  pre-breakfast walks, catching the sunrise over the hills.  A little rest after our gourmet coffee (with skim milk and agave syrup, of course) breakfast buffet, featuring egg white omelets with homemade salsa, fresh fruit, smoked salmon, creamy avocado,  whole wheat toast and lean bacon, then a mid-morning exercise circuit...probably, an hour of body pump style gym class aerobics with funky cardio music.  Then, maybe some yoga or pilates to ease us into our lunch, which would inevitably be prepared al fresco in the sunshine, grilled swordfish or lean steak with a light salad and fruity ice tea.  Of course, our afternoons would be free to “enjoy our holiday,” and we could opt for tennis on the courts, a few hours poolside with a good book, possibly horse-riding on the beach or kayaking in the ocean.  Finally, as the sun is setting on our perfect day, a nice warm dinner in front of the fire (as it does get a bit chilly at night, even in Spain) of chorizo and white bean cassoulet and a single glass of ruby-colored rich Rioja to wash it all down before retiring for a hot bubble bath in the giant jacuzzi tub or an hour’s massage.

Not a bad way to work off the holidays, eh?

Wrong.

Turns out I had traded my soul to the devil for all my Christmas delish debauchery.  Well, not so much the devil, really, as the Captains of Pain.  

Now, the night before I flew to Hell, as I like to call it now, (a 6 am flight, I might add.  It is almost as if I were subconsciously trying to make it as hellish as possible), I went to a friend’s engagement drinks where I had a couple of beers.  Now my friends at this event started asking me if I was ready for what I was getting into – seems everyone else had an inkling of what awaited ‘cept for me.)  In a last-ditch attempt at denial, I put my hands over my ears, shouting “LALALALALAL I CAN’T HEAR YOU,” before taking off in a taxi home, via the local fish and chip shop.   So, maybe not the best prep for the week.

But, deluded I remained.  To the point that it only occurred to me that there would be no coffee as I was sitting in the coffee shop at the Malaga airport waiting for our ride.  I think panic kinda set in then.

And, again, I remained deluded, when the first Captain of Pain – Captain Comedy as he came to be known in my head (and for reasons that will become abundantly clear all too soon) started the drive to our hacienda.    He very kindly offered to pick us up some lunch it was a 45 minute drive, and I actually believed him when he told us that there was a McDonalds en route.  First sign. 

We were met at the casa by Captain Kind.  This was a smart way to ease us into it. As we awaited the arrival of the rest of the girls, we were weighed and measured and then had a half-hearted attempt at playing badminton and volleyball.  We had a delicious bowl of homemade vegetable soup.  We frolicked in the sunshine.  I was happy.

And, yet, I still didn’t pick up on the next two big hints.  One, when I asked what was for lunch after our pre-meal snack of soup and was told that WAS lunch.  And, two, when Captain Kind said that the real boot camp would start the next day.  I assumed he meant when the others had arrived.

Wrong.

Fast forward to 6 am.  It is butt-arse cold.  There is no central heat, so we are ladened down with comforters and duvets to stave off the near zero temperatures. (Turns out February in Spain is FREEZING, afterall.)  We get out of bed in a groggy state.  We stumble to the front lawn where we get our first “consequence” of the week.

From Captain Cool, the third in the triumvirate of evil.  

Now, for the un-initiated, a “consequence” is a torture technique inflicted upon us in retaliation for failure to adhere to one of the rules.  Like, being on time.  And, luckily for us, there is one person who is late. To everything.

Now, in the interest of protecting the annoying, I am going to call this person Floja.  (which is Spanish for lazy.  You can see where this is headed, methinks.)  So Floja is late.  So we have to do push-ups.  Then Floja puts her hands on her hips. So we have to do push-ups.   

We finally get started on our pre-morning workout.  Running. Up and down the driveway.  Which is in on a steep incline.   For an hour.

Then we break for breakfast – woo hoo!  I have now done more exercise in one morning than I have done in the past 6 months combined.   Boy, am I ready for my breakfast buffet!

Imagine my joy at a receiving a cup of oatmeal.

Now, don’t get me wrong, this was clearly the best oatmeal I had ever had.  But, I actually considered licking the bowl and the only thing that stopped me was the fact that I didn’t know anyone well enough yet to reveal that desperation yet.  (Natch, this did come later)

But, then we get a half hour break.  So, I get back in bed and go back to sleep.  I get out bed in a groggy and, if it is possible, even colder state.  I stumble to the front lawn, where we get another consequence for tardiness.  Courtesy of guess who?  Yep.  No flies on y’all.

At this point, Captain Cool introduces me to his world of pain, I mean, circuits.  See, he has two favorite things in the world.  Inflicting pain and looking good while doing it – hence, his name.  And, pain for him comes in the form of burpees, push-ups, stand-up/sit downs and inch worms.  All of these involve getting down on the ground and back to a standing position at a break-neck pace, coupled with any combination of a push-up, jump, crunch, or arch.  Sounds easy, right?  Do 10 in a row of each, following by a sprint to and from a target point in the distance.

Do this for an hour.

Then, do it again.

At this point, I want to die.  Or, kill.  And, it is only 10:30 am.

I keep thinking it is going to get better.  But, it doesn’t.  It just goes on and on.  Luckily, Captain Comedy is circling the group, promising chocolate cake and bacon.  Yeah, a real Ricky Gervais that one.  Captain Kind is also circling the group and answering questions about form and injuries.  A minor twinge injury gets you at least a few minutes rest so I make up all manner of problems to discuss with him.  I think he starts to catch on after I ask about menstrual cramps.

Somehow, I persevere.  Meanwhile, it has become painfully obvious that I am the most out of shape, uncoordinated, balance challenged and slowest woman there.  I am getting out-run, out-lifted and out-push-upped by everyone, including those who were chain-smoking in between sets and my old friend Floja.

Now, two days into this and normally I would be a complete HATER.  I would hate the Captains of Pain, who devise the cruel, bone-crushing and lunge pounding sprints of death up the Hills of Hell.  I would hate the gorgeous athletic sprinters and Gold Standard circuit masters, who barely break a sweat as they lap me twice over.  I would hate the chef who short changed me an olive on my salad and only doles out  two nuts with my paltry child-sized snack of a half banana.  I would hate all the staff who eat burgers and cheese while I am scraping the remains of my soup bowl.  And, mostly, I would hate myself for making the asinine decision to pay this much money to be this miserable.

But, luckily for me and everyone else, I get to hate Floja.  

A little background on Floja – she actually came on this camp to quit smoking.  Not to exercise.  Not to lose weight.  Seems a bit overkill to me – when I quit smoking, I went to a seminar for a half day, not a week in Hell. Clearly, she was as clueless as I was.  But, who knows.

The only problem with her strategy was that she was indignant that she wasn’t getting more food and was being forced to exercise.   She noticed first thing our sweet little Steffi (who is always freakishly cold and resists anything green on her plate – hmmm – ya think, maybe the two are connected?)   who only picks, child-like, at her food, leaving the vegetables and greens to the side.  Floja sees a real opportunity here, so she hones in on Steffi like a lioness circling the weak antelope, positioning herself next to Steffi at every meal, scavenging off the remains.

And, in her disgruntled state she resists all manner of instruction – at pain of, you guessed it, consequences for the rest of us.    I think we were all about to kill her when she put her “weapon” (code: heavy as sh*t weight bar) down on the beach and we all had to run a quarter of a mile in the shifting sand carrying ours.  She, of course, walked.   Without hers.

So, my hate intensifies.  I hate her every time she stabs her fork into food on Steffi’s plate before Steffi even has a chance to sit down, with the comment “You’re not going to eat that.”    I hate her a little bit more every time she cheats at a circuit rep, half-arsing her burpees and push-ups or using the lightest weights and paying lip service to lunges and squats.   I hate her lots more when she quits at challenges, such as our 5k mountain climb or our morning runs up the Hill of Hell.   And I positively seethe with hatred when is able to finish every activity ahead of me and beats me on races and in games.  (never mind that the Captains of Pain have all told me that this is because of her half-arsing it and cheating.  (I see that she is hoarding her energy and strength in a personal goal of beating me.  I see that she is competitive.  She sees that I am.  Game on.)

And, no, I do not think I am paranoid. 

Well, maybe a little.

But, never mind, because it is this hatred that gets me through the week.  Well, that and the fact that I realized on the third day that everyone else hated her, too. 

Maybe not to the extent that I did.  But, I was certainly not the only one who noticed that she was able to move her arse when it was competitive – races or netball and she was on top of her game.  Hikes and team runs and she was lolly-gagging in the back, lunges and hill climbs and it was statements of “I don’t do that.”

But, I digress!

So, day in and day out, we follow the same timeline.  7 am runs, breakfast, circuits, snack, circuits, lunch, afternoon activity (which, blissfully, was actually restful  on some days) dinner and bed.  I learned that I should have actually read the equipment list – blister tape (never even heard of that one before!), blister compresses and nurofen plus all became my best friend.   Two pair of socks and underwear each day really were required.  My running headband wore out, my sports bras had to be doubled up, a hot shower became the sole moment of joy in my day and I guzzled green tea in a bid to stave off the caffeine-withdrawal.  I drank so much water and green tea, that I naturally had to pee a lot. So much so that we ran out of toilet paper in our room one night before bed.  I was so tired and achey that I proffered up my face wipes as a poor substitute rather than have to get out from under the three comforters on my bed to go out into the cold night to get more TP. 

(Needless to say, Sam was not amused.)

The actuality of what I had voluntarily paid money and taken a week off work to do that had been so apparent to all my friends became a never-ending, cold, pain-filled, exhausted, hungry and cranky reality.   At one point, I actually pushed myself so hard that I cried and threw up from the effort.

And, yet, the women were all supportive and encouraging, we laughed a lot, the Captains of Pain all looked pretty good (and, even better with their shirts off at the beach on the ONE warm day we had) and the food was extremely tasty and filling, leaving us wanting more.  I discovered that I actually liked hot water with fresh lemon, ginger and mint instead of coffee.  I survived without cheese or wine.   I learned that I could hike up a mountain, run a couple of miles and push myself to do push-ups, lunges and squats until my muscles felt like they were about to burst.  I learned to play rounders, netball and the most pathetic girly version of touch rugby you ever saw.

On the last night, we actually had a glass of champagne and had another weigh-in and a set of measurements taken.  I was positive I had actually lost tons of weight, as I felt I had literally worked my arse off.  Yeah, not so much.

And, guess who lost more than me? 

Yep, turns out Karma is a b*tch.  (or is for those of us who act like one, anyway.)

Guess I will just have to do this again in the summer.  Which is what I told Sam on the flight home.

I must still be high from the endorphins.