Day 2: A New York Ass-Kicking

Suffice to say that Day Two was worse than Day One. I wasn't planning to write a blog series on my two-week stint at Pure Power Boot Camp. But the absurd situation I've put myself in, combined with my incessant laziness, kind of makes for laughable material. *face palm*

I arranged to arrive to class at 8pm on the dot, body in pain from the first class — the lady at the desk said I could skip my push-ups, as class was starting. (Success!) I ran my laps and met up with my platoonmates for partner stretches. I did not mention these in yesterday's post. Partner stretches consist of sitting in two lines, pushing our partner's back/legs/arms/what-have-you so you get a painful nice stretch. The recruit nearest me (aka my partner) was a guy; I could tell he was a frequent boot-camper. You can easily differentiate the old-timers (clad in faded camo fatigues) from the Groupon newbies (black pants). I held his legs down during the butterfly stretch and did my best to keep my hands as far away from his, um..., as I could. *awkward* After the stretches, my Drill Instructor (a different guy from Day One), whispered something in my stretch partner's ear, who then ran to the front of the line. I guess I was slowing him down. Now I was the weird girl at the end of the line with no one across from me. Our DI silently walked down the middle. He turned to face me. "What's your last name?" "Smithers?"

Side Note: I was scared because Commanding Officer Brenner (aka the hot ab chick PPBC owner) sent me a "new recruit" email saying I could email her with any love/questions/etc., and my coworker suggested that I email her a link to my blog. So I did. She did not respond. So when the DI asked my name, I assumed that I was in big trouble. /end note

"WHAT?" "Smithers? Smithers." "Smeeters, are you confused?" "No! No." "OK, Smeeters. Good." (ShitIoffendedCOBwithmyblognowI'mscared.) Jumping jacks. I do about 50 and then take a break, continuing to count and wave my arms. The DI spots me. He laughs. I relax. I laugh. COB takes the old-timers. The DI takes the people like me. Only they're not really like me, turns out I'm Still That Girl. More hurdles. I straddle. (But I spotted another Straddler!) Over the huge walls. Only this time we have to go up the side without a ledge. So it's like... a flat wall that we have to crawl over like f-cking Spiderman. DI sees me struggling. He gives me a boost. Now I am belly down on the top of this wall with my arms and legs dangling over the sides. I kind of fall off and somehow land on my feet. I may not be Spiderman, but I am a cat!

Now we are instructed to pick up a rubber tire. I get my tire. We're told to do 50 of these tire lifts over our heads. My tire is heavy. DI says I can trade with another guy who's tire is lighter. I want to prove that I am badass, and I say no, I can handle my tire. After three lifts, I regret it. He says I can switch. I still can't really get past 10. My legs are shaking. I am seeing spots. He tells me to go get a bar and lift that instead. I run by myself to get the bar, while my platoonmates all have tires. This is embarrassing.

Now we do dips. I can't do these either. I feel like I am going to die. Did I mention that I haven't worked out consistently, oh, EVER? My body is in shock. I meekly ask if I can get water. He lets me. We do sit-ups. I am told to get an 8-pound barbell and to do 60. I do a shitload. I lose count. "SMEETERS! What number are you on?" "I don't know. But I have been doing them!" "No. Start over, Smeeters. You can do 20." I start counting from 5. He laughs. He is going easy on me. I appreciate it. But I am also ashamed.

Class is almost over. We get in a circle to say our kindergarten-classroom Words. It is my turn. I debate which Word to say. Strength? Honor? I try Power again. "POWER...?" "Are you sure about that, SMEETERS?" "Yes! POWER! POWER! POWER!"

On the way out of class, I meet two fellow boot-campers in the elevator. "I'm so embarrassed," I say. "It's OK! Is this your first day?" "Second." "Honestly, your second day is worse than the first. I don't know what it is, but it's brutal." They both agreed. "Really?! So you felt nauseous and faint and death-like?" "YES," the girl said. "It gets better!" Gosh. They're so nice. I will not quit this. I can finish! I am a cat!

A New York Ass-Kicking

It's no secret. I have commitment issues. I am easily distracted. I have been known to join multiple gyms, go for a month and then lie to get out of the contract. (I once "moved in with my grandma who lives in southern Missouri" and even had my cellphone bill sent there for two months so I had change-of-residency "proof.") So when I saw this Groupon for 75% off six classes at Pure Power Boot Camp, I figured what the hell. I was sold when I saw that it's located two blocks away from my work. I enlisted for two weeks of classes in early August (um, now).

The day of my first class (um, yesterday), I looked at the website in detail. Torture devices stared back at me — things like Barbed Wire Crawl and Belly Robbers scoffed in my face. I was getting nervous. I calmed my nerves with an iced coffee and a small cookie the afternoon before class. It's my birthday week. I can have a cookie. I arrived to class 15 minutes early (gasp! have we met?) as instructed in my "platoon uniform" of black pants and sneakers. Upon arrival, I filled out a waiver for new "recruits" stating that sprains and fractured bones are possible and that I will be added to some sort of "KILL BOARD" if I fail to arrive in uniform. Then they tossed an oversize army T-shirt at me and ordered that I do five push-ups. Done. Sort of. I changed into my shirt and joined my "platoon." We were surrounded by ropes and hurdles and torture chambers of all kinds stuck in a pit of what seemed to be an odd combination of loose rubber and styrofoam. The outskirts of the pit was swathed in camouflage and feel-good Words like POWER, INTEGRITY, STRENGTH and TRUST. It reminded me of those motivational posters in kindergarten classrooms. I liked it.

Suddenly, it occurred to me that my shirt was on backward — my dog-tag graphic was in front. Everyone else's was in back. Peeked in collar, sure enough, there was the XL tag starring back at me. Quickly switched shirt around and got in line for jumping jacks. Everyone just automatically knew to start counting. I was confused. For every number they shouted, they did three or four jacks. They also seemed to be counting backward. I mouthed various numbers and waved my arms around.

Time for some laps. Now I like to start out with a nice, light jog. Many of my fellow recruits/platoonmates/soldiers were sprinting past me. Overachievers, I thought to myself. We then split up into two groups. Commanding Officer Brenner (aka the hot chick with the abs) took the overachievers. A drill instructor guy (I will call him DI) took people like me. We immediately had to go over these wooden hurdles that went up to my belly button. Those in front of me were sticking their left leg up and pulling themselves over all professional-like. I straddled it. Left leg up, straddle, right leg over, slide off. The DI showed me out to do it. I was scared and thought I was going to trip over the hurdle, falling on my face in the pit. I straddled it again. I straddled them all. I was That Girl. The Straddle Girl Who Slowed Down The Whole Platoon. Then we went to a wall of sorts that was much taller than me. We had to climb over it and jump down. I got up to the top, looked down and freaked. DI claimed it's not that far and to jump down. So I did. I landed on my feet! I did three more.

Then we had to do these box step-up things and squats. I went to grab my water. "PUT THAT WATER DOWN!" DI shouted. Jaw dropped, I did what I was told. He wanted us to count while doing the steps. I don't think anyone knew whether to start backward or forward. So we didn't speak. "You can't count, so then GET AWAY FROM ME!" he snarled. "Go run three laps." So we did. I was scared. A nice girl introduced herself while jogging, asked if it was my first day. "Yes. Is it almost over?" "You've got 20 more minutes. Don't worry about it, you paid for it, do what you can." I liked her. At this point, I was feeling faint. I must've looked pale. Vomit was rising in my throat. I seriously thought I was going to collapse. We were given a 10-second water break.

Then we did some 200 sit-ups of sorts while being ordered to scream things like "I AM A SEXY BITCH!" The minute my DI turned his back, I rested. Yes. I am a dirty cheater. At the end, our platoon sat in a circle, and we were ordered to shout Words. DI told me to say POWER. "Power?" I said in question form.

When I walked out, legs shaking, I felt like I'd accomplished something great, aside from swallowing my puke. I realized that I had a huge sweat spot that looked as if I had peed myself. For a split second, I questioned whether or not I really peed myself. I did not. Whew. I go back tonight. Five more classes. I can do this.

Nobody Hacks MY Dad

My dad's Yahoo email account got hacked. I know this, because he sent me a link about a Canadian drugstore. I happen to know his password. Knowing that it could take him five hours to figure out how to change it, I went ahead and fixed it. Then I immediately called him.

Me: Dad. Your email account got hacked.
Dad: What?! How do you know?
Me: Because you sent me a link to a Canadian drugstore.
Dad: What?! This is terrible!!! This happened before, I think. That... mailer...
Me: Yes, MAILER-DAEMON. You didn't change your password?
Dad: Yes! Mailer demon! I didn't know what happened. I feel so bad.
Me: It's OK. Don't worry, it happens to lots of people.
Dad: Even you?
Me: Well... no. I have Gmail. But I changed your password. It's X.
Dad: So I need this password to get on the Internet? What about my Favorites? Where I pay my bills?
Me: Dad, this is just for your Yahoo email address. Everything else is the same.
Dad: Even my Favorites?!
Me: Yes, even your Favorites. But your inbox is filled with spam. You should really get a new email address.
Dad: How do I do that?!
Me: I'll set you up with a Gmail account. It's better. More secure.
Dad: Well, I want to come up with the name.
Me: You don't want to just use your regular name?
Dad: Like... mike@gmail.com?
Me: Um, no. Like your full name.
Dad: Isn't that bad?! I don't want my name out there!!
Me: It's OK. It'll be OK. I can switch over your contacts, too.
Dad: Like, my address book? Will you give them my new email address??
Me: Yea, sure.
Dad: But what about the hacker's? I don't want him to have my new email!!!
Me: It's OK, dad. He won't. But um, you should really take a basic computer class.
Dad: Like, on the Internet? Or where I get in my truck and drive?
Me: Um...
Dad: This is the start of you wiping my ass, isn't it?

If You Only Visit One Store In New York...

As written for fashion blog iheartheels.com
It was March of 2002. I was living on a college girl's budget and had come to New York for the first time ever. My much more fashion-savvy friends immediately started raving about this elusive H&M and demanded to go. I didn't understand. Until I saw for myself. I was smitten. Fabulous clothes! Shoes! Accessories! More clothes! I could spend $100 and walk out with five outfits. To this day, I don't know what it stands for (Hugs&Mustaches? Hearts&Milkshakes?), but I remain ever loyal. So of course when my friend Julie at iheartheels.com asked me to cover H&M's Fashion Against Aids event last month, I jumped at the chance. Side note: I interviewed at Seventeen during that first H&M-filled visit to New York. The following summer, Julie and I ended up interning together at the iconic teen magazine. We discovered we were sorority sisters *cue secret handshake*, and a friendship was instantly born. Moving on...

New York's Fifth Avenue H&M store was packed to the gills with fashion lovers and shoppers at the May 19 event, which boasted a 20% discount on everything (squeal!), appetizers, drinks, live music, you name it. Basically, I shopped. A lot. And I also admired their new Fashion Against Aids collection — 25% of every single sale made from this collection will be donated to various HIV/AIDS prevention projects. That's a hell of a lot of money... especially seeing as the collection is gorgeous and is bound to sell out. Some of my favorite pieces from the FAA collection:

I fell head-over-heels in love with that angelic white ruffled maxi dress after seeing it on one of the models. When I tried it on, it didn't look quite right on me, and I almost cried. (Sadly when I left Kansas for NYC over six years ago, my hips came along for the ride.) Luckily, I was able to find a few pieces worthy of my Beyoncé-sized booty. $200 worth to be exact. Sigh. It's not really spending frivolously when it goes to a good cause, right? xx

That Girl (You Know The One)

So my coworker/friend Nicole is, for me, That Girl. You know the one — she's charismatic and always looks immaculate, even while pregnant and wearing 4-inch heels. When getting dressed in the morning, sometimes I think to myself, what would Nicole pair with this? Would she opt for the beaded necklace? Would she belt this cardigan? This is usually followed by me saying fuckit, picking up the same Get Up Kids hoodie off the floor and bouncing off to work in my Converse. Said Nicole has also bled into my eating habits. Afterall, it was her who first told me about that damn Blueprint Cleanse. She is the one who said that berries are better for you than bananas, thus forcing me to buy a bag of frozen berries that I inevitably threw out because they tasted like tart, tangy mush.

For fear of sounding creepy, let the record state that I am easily influenced in general, doesn't matter who you are. Whether I'm taking business advice from Jami, boy advice from Jessi, permission to eat croutons for dinner from Meagan or love-handle reassurance from Crista. While the aforementioned ladies make up some of my best friends, Nicole will forever be That Girl for me. The one who makes wearing heels look effortless, who has the willpower to only eat half an office brownie (not five), who at first glance appears to be the epitome of one of those all-together New York "fashionistas" — the intimidating kind — that I used to see in magazines and on TV while growing up in Kansas City. Yet one might be surprised to find that her humor (she was the one who loudly pointed out the peculiar-shaped sweet potato in the office minifridge) and inner beauty very much outshine her chunky cuff bracelets that I covet on a daily basis.

For instance, her 365 Heartbeats Project has me looking at life just a little bit differently. She spent the better part of an evening photographing me in the rain on a deserted New York street (see above) for this project. As awkward as this was for me... with N's help, I was able to laugh at myself. And ironically, it was a quick shot taken the next morning (at left) that she ended up posting — I like to think that it captures a part of my soul that is very genuine. That je-ne-sais-quoi that is inside of me and what my dad refers to when he tells me to "stay golden."

My point is this: Oh. I don't really have one. I told her that I would post about her cute new weekly fashion blog on AOL's Lemondrop.com (read it — so you, too, can be That Girl... or at least look like one) which got me to thinking, Is there anything that this chick can't do? ♥