After weeks of being pestered by a friend about going to Fit Camp, I finally folded. I had run out of excuses and the only one I hadn’t used yet was the truth: I just didn’t feel like it. Because that wasn’t the most effective excuse, I knew it was time to go. I was warned profusely about its intensity and the prospective dry heaving I would be suffering through afterwards, but no one could prepare me for the feeling of inadequacy it brought me.

First of all, there should be a warning label on all pizza boxes stating “Do Not Consume Before Intense Workout.” Tonight I understand all of those seemingly obvious labels that companies are required to have on their products. After years of rolling my eyes and imagining the types of morons that need to be reminded that hey, if you’re allergic to peanuts, maybe you shouldn’t eat peanut butter, I now understand it from the moron’s point of view. So as I sat with my head down on my knees a quarter through the workout, breathing like Darth Vadar and hoping I’d pass out so I wouldn’t have to deal with the torture anymore, I shared my moronic decision with the trainer. It went something like this:

“How are you feeling?”

*looks at super fit instructor with defeated gaze*

“What did you have for dinner?”

*Breaks eye contact and musters out “…pizza…”*

So after regaining motor functions, I rejoined the group and finished the workout at my own pace. In other words, barely finished and barely participated. But watching planks, wall squats and mountain climbers was no more enjoyable than actually doing them. Not from boredom, but from feeling hopeless. They asked for 50 burpees, they got about 23 turtle-pace ones from me. But at least I was trying. At least I made a move to better myself. But by the end of the night, after skipping several exercises that I probably could have completed if I had really tried, I knew tonight was a key example of why it took me this long to show up, why I have to increase clothing sizes every few months, and why I dread stepping on the scale. Because I’ve lost sight of the fact that cheating, whether it be on my diet or in workouts (or lack-thereof), hurts one person only: me. Nobody else is going to get me back on track, I have to do it for myself.

But you haven’t even heard the best part: after an hour of physical torture, the trainers added a cherry to this lovely evening: they had us step on the scale of tears and hold onto a full body sensor, a contraption that measures BMI, body fat percentage, skeletal muscle percentage and body age. In other words, it’s a contraption that takes three seconds to smack you in the face with the reality of a lifetime of poor choices. So as I stared at those cruel, but deserved numbers, I had no more jokes, no more effective but unhealthy ways to reassure myself that life is too short to not eat what I want. This rude awakening gave me watery eyes, but also the realization that eating whatever I want will earn me an even shorter life than the one I use to defend my bad habits.

So pizza, bread, ice cream and all the other short-term fixes I’ve grown to love, your deliciousness has done more harm than good. I’ll give in to you again, this I’m sure of, but our relationship will never be like it used to be. It’s not me, it’s you. And Fit Camp, I’ll be back. You still won’t get all 50 burpees out of me, but you’ll see me working (and sweating) my butt off in hopes of making it there one day.