500 Things to do in the 500 Days until the Big 3-0: 180. You're In The Army Now

25th July 2014, GI Jane Bootcamp, Sittingbourne

On a whim, and after reading one too many issues of Now Magazine featuring a TOWIE bootcamp special, I booked myself into a one week boot camp.

It immediately seemed some people were surprised by said decision. I mean, why would a wine loving dirt-o-phobe who is in the midst of an intense romance with her hair rollers decide to hit the rural woods of Kent when she normally won't leave zone 1 without a fight?

The short answer ladies and gentleman - she used to have an ass and six months of leisurehood have meant she now has about seven.

So, on a sunny July morning, after a healthy breakfast of Sugar Puffs, off to the metropolis of Sittingbourne I was. In my Mickey Mouse hoodie. A girl needs to keep some class you know. And a hop, skip and rather bumpy cab ride later - I had a arrived at my home for the upcoming week. I could really have enjoyed the beautiful room and the gorgeous fireplace, the stunning views and the fresh air. Instead I put myself through one week of squats, after which, I really could not care less about the air or the room or the views.

I then proceeded to allow myself to be fooled by the man in the little shorts and the neat hair cut greeting us at the door to the weigh in. Here's a hint to any lady attempting this - don't be fooled by the hair, the shorts or the joking around, these masters of torture will make you run until you want to throw up or at the very least want to fake a seizure (I tried that and also learned - these guys will see right through any stalling tactic known to man).

You also have to hand it to these guys, it's an equal amount of pain each day, but a brand new way go gain it every session. Eventually you'll learn to be grateful for this fact. Eventually. Especially if you make your new mantra at 7 am each morning: 'At least it isn't hill sprints'. Believe me, being grateful at anything in life that is not a hill sprint will help you through it all.

To demonstrate the length to which these people went to make my life exciting and varied for the week, here's a breakdown, freely based on diary notes from camp:

Day one: I was finding myself thinking that maybe this wasn't so bad after a few minutes of ab work, a few semi push ups, a short run and happily admitting my temporary fatness being down to six months of wine, cheese and chocolate five times a day. The other girls seemed lovely and, most importantly, not easily offended which is a must to hang out with me after all. So with high spirits I entered the dining room with all my new found friends to found a yummy starter of soup and crackers. Three bites in and with an empty plate in front of me, I eagerly anticipated my main. That did not happen. So with an empty stomach, a mug of broth and of course my Mickey Mouse hoodie, I went to bed at 7.45 PM.

Day two: For a girl who has spent the last six months not even contemplating getting out of bed until noon unless there's a fire and no marshmallows are at hand - telling me to be ready for circuits at 7 AM was hoping for a lot. Sadly for me, the instructor guys had very little sympathy for my recent life style choices and therefore, circuits it was.
After the dinner mishap of the starter being the meal, I had no high hopes for breakfast. And although tasty, scrambled eggs and salmon without the Bloody Mary just does not give me that post work out brunch feel. Then I realised this was really a pre work out brunch and that those circuits were barely the kiddie version of the day to come.

After a full day of strenuous work out, celery sticks and nettle blisters the size of golf balls we wrapped the day up with a casual run. With a stretcher. And an imaginary injured man in the shape of sand bags and tires. Never have I wanted an imaginary man to just die already as after those 10 k.

After a refreshing ice bath in the man sized bucket and a truly filling dinner of steamed stuff, I was ready to take my sore body up to bed and pass out there. Lying down on the bed, I realise I am in too much pain to get my trousers off. In too much pain to turn Chatty Man off. In too much pain to crawl to the door and lock my room. In too much pain to even think of the day ahead.

Day three: Right, this is pain. A good pain. I guess. My ass hurt so evidently there is still a muscle or two in there. Good to know. I don't want to cry.

It was another day of 7 AM until 7 PM workouts and somehow, lugging the heavy logs and sprinting until my head (thighs, calves, whatever) was about to explode did not feel so bad today. Not even the ice bath at the end of the day was too terrible and I even found it acceptable being shoved into the water by the man in the tiny shorts. Apparently this bootcamp came with an extra side of acceptance where my truffle fries normally go.

And for dinner - roast. I thought it had been a cruel joke when our brilliant chef had told us this earlier in the day but there was actual roast there. I don't think I have ever experienced genuine chicken induced euphoria before.

To finish this rather positive day off on an even more positive note, there was a quiz. On candy. That was a bit mean. But I won, so I'm OK with that and on this particular evening, following an intense argument of the true heritage of Daim bars, I went to sleep a happy bunny. Still wearing my quiz gold medal. And of course the Mickey Mouse hoodie.

Day four: All the weekenders had left us to get on with their lives in the real world. Leaving us and our celery sticks behind to fend for ourselves.

To cheer us up, the trainers took us to a pool. There were no Pina Coladas. None. There were however in-water pull ups, some delicious gulps of pool water and several highly graceful beached whale imitations on my end.

By the time I got out of the pool and into my dry clothes, I was starving. Now, at that stage of hunger, you do not want to have to walk about a gazillion kilometres through a town centres whilst lunch is being served in every corner. Just saying.

With new arrivals having appeared as we got back for lunch, I decided to show them who was the boss and when I was told to crawl on the ground, jump over fallen trees and lug ammunition boxes around that afternoon - my God was I being a Viking doing it. A bloody, dirty Viking with twigs in her hair. Oh boy would my ancestors had been proud. The new ladies however primarily looked scared. People just can't take a primal war scream these days.

Day five: From Peggy Positive to being in the foulest mood known to man overnight. I was determined to pick a fight with just about anyone. Thankfully, in a group of 15 women, someone was bound to tell me what to do at some stage, which as per usual had the effect of rage unbeknown to man and total refusal to do anything along the lines of the suggested order. Just another reason I am not in the army folks. In fact, I'd probably be kicked off within 10 minutes.

Following a minor tantrum over a screwed up neck, the rules of netball and my general annoyance at other human beings, I went back to Duracell Bunny speed and an attitude so positive that Amelie from Montmarte would appear as a miserable bitch in comparison.

Day six: I was actually finding myself sad that it's nearly over. Who would have thought? I had started to take a liking to this country side bubble of healthy eating, exercise, herbal tea and looser trousers. Actually, this isn't entirely true. I am really fed up with herbal tea and want to see it dead. Preferably killed by a man size cup of coffee.

I proceeded with this penultimate day of bootcamp by getting myself and all unfortunate creatures stupid enough to follow me, lost for the third time on the same route. And this time there wasn't even a bearded man with two teeth and three dogs to give us direction through the nearest corn field.

I thought I had learnt to cope with the portion sizes and had even managed to stay clear of the contraband pear cleverly hidden in my room by one of the weekenders.

Then we realised there were blackberries in the woods.

Some may say climbing into a nettle bush in flip flops, wave away the bees with bare hands and getting your bra stuck in the thorns was a tad exaggerated. I'd say it was a cry for help. Never have I understood kids fleeing fat camp as I have this day. And it would all have been worth it, had the blackberries not been confiscated the minute we walked through the door back home. Back to the broth it was.

Day seven: And we hit the beach! OK, so it wasn't the Caribbean, they had no jazzy background tunes or waiters bringing you cold beverages every five minutes. But I was willing to pretend. At least until I was forced into water (cold and dirty), doing some sort of Iron Man hybrid out of water. As it turns out, it's no easier lugging tires or ammunition boxes or a 50 litre water bottle back and forth in water with your clothes on. Especially not whilst trying not to get your hair wet. I should probably have aborted that mission much earlier on.

Once finished with the water circuits and back on dry land, I looked like a troll covered in sand and with seaweed down my underwear. No I don't know how that happened either.

By the time they got me the celebratory one week survival glass of champagne I felt the strongest sense of achievement I have since high school - only without having to flirt with the substitute English teacher for an A. Following the sense of achievement I also had a sense of champagne tipsiness - apparently not eating more than 1200 calories per day for a week in combination with that one glass of champagne one easily affected me makes. I may have made an inappropriate joke to the man with the tiny shorts about the tiny shorts. I kind of even wished I was sorry about it which is the closest to an apology you will get me!

At the one week weigh in, I had dropped 9.5 pounds and 12 inches (surely that's at least one of my asses) and felt ridiculously proud of myself and didn't even want a cookie or ten to celebrate it.

This place is tough but oh my was it worth it and I'm heading back in November. Bring on the hill sprints!