Here's the deal: I want to lose 10 pounds. I want my arms to not jiggle when I wave. I want a flat stomach.
And there's one last, less vanity-induced desire. I want to climb a few flights of stairs without getting winded. At 29, I know I'm not some "young spring chicken," as my grandmother likes to remind me. But I shouldn't huff and puff after climbing three flights of stairs. It's embarrassing, not to mention depressing. If this is me at 29, what will 50 look like? Me in an E-Z Power Chair?
I call Barry before my first class and ask him if he thinks I'll reach my goals. Halfway through the phone call, Barry drops a bombshell. He tells me I shouldn't expect a major dip in my weight. Huh? "It's important to remember that we lose inches before pounds," he tells me. "The number on the scale goes up or down as muscle develops while body fat decreases."
Instead of using the scale ("Throw it away!" he tells me), Barry suggests I use a pair of pants and keep track of the way they fit. My favorite pair of jeans are a tad too tight. OK, I lie. They leave bright red seam indentations in my skin every time I peel them off. No scale? No problem. These jeans should inspire me to get off my couch.
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My so-called horizontal life
All right, I'm woman enough to confess it: I'm not the athletic type. I always joke that if I could, I would live my life horizontally. My brief flirtations with exercise include an elliptical machine obsession during my senior year of college and lots of walking and subway stairs during my early professional life in New York City. Walking counts, right?
Then I met my boyfriend, Brooks, whose outlook on health and fitness is the exact opposite of mine. He actually orders a salad as a meal at a restaurant, not just for health reasons, but because he actually likes salad. He works out consistently -- even when we're on vacation. And while I love that he'll be around forever 'cause he's so damn healthy, his high falutin' health nut ways can also be seriously annoying. Especially when the waiter delivers a plate of food to the wrong person. Hello! I ordered the bacon cheeseburger with fries. He's the grilled chicken salad.
However, one upside to dating a health-food junkie is that sometimes those health and fitness vibes rub off on you. So, even though I'd never choose to go jogging willingly, I sometimes go with Brooks. Last year, we even completed a 60-day High Intensity Interval Training (HIIT) program together, appropriately named "Insanity." Six days a week we ran, jumped, crunched, and balanced our way to better health, which surprisingly produced only one five-minute crying fit (me), and one vomit scare (him). I lost 10 pounds and actually had a flat stomach for a fast minute -- long enough to buy a bikini and feel good wearing it. Proud? Hell yeah.
But would Barry's program stack up? And would I stick to the plan without Brooks working out by my side?
It's 6:28 a.m. when I walk into Barry's Bootcamp, a West Hollywood institution that pumps out tight, toned, A-List bodies. I'm so nervous I think I might barf.
I make my way to one of the dozen treadmills that face the back wall while other bootcampers find a stepper that faces the front. I survey the scene. These people obviously take fitness seriously. They are perfectly toned, athletic looking (read: no fake boobs here), and all wear the same uniform -- a black tank, sports bra, black capri leggings, and high performance sneakers. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and realize I look like a bum by comparison; my shorts ride up with every step and my sneakers? The tread is peeling off the bottom.
Note to self: Glue gun the sneaks.
At exactly 6:30 a.m. the lights dim and the club music gets louder. Barry -- a cammo-wearing personal trainer who resembles Rambo -- starts barking instructions and everyone starts moving quickly. Really quickly. As I crank up the speed and start to take my light jog to what feels like a sprint, I ask myself, "What the hell did I sign up for and more importantly, why?"
Then I remember: It's Kim Kardashian's fault.
I'll admit it -- I'm mildly obsessed with Kimmy K. right now. Maybe it's because I can't avoid her. She's on every magazine cover, TV channel, and gossip site. And if there's one thing about Kim K. that drives the media wild, it's her body. The secret to Kim's curves, they say? Barry's Bootcamp, a torture chamber that's churned out other hot celeb bodies (think Jennifer Lopez, Britney Spears, Jessica Alba, and Katie Holmes).
So where do I come in? Despite my lack of celeb superpower DNA, I want to know if I can get the same results as the A-List elite. Is Kim K.'s body really attainable? Can I get rock-hard abs, toned arms, and a slimmer waistline in a mere 30 days? There's only one way to find out � and it starts with a measuring tape.
