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Hell on Earth, Thy Name is 24S.E.T.

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I’ll put up with a lot in the name of health and a trim, firm bod. I’ll run on the treadmill till I want to hurl myself out the 24 Hour Fitness dome window from boredom. I’ll walk up the dusty trails of Runyon in the midday sun. Shit, I’ll even hang upside down from a flying trapeze.

But of everything I do, nothing terrifies me quite like the hellhole that is my gym’s boot-camp-style interval training class.

Each week as Tuesday rolls around, I promise myself, oh no, not again. Not this week. I won’t do it…until I find myself staring at the long lines for the elliptical, the 20-minute wait for the bike…and suddenly, against my best judgment and all that I know to be good and true in the world, there I am, heading into 24S.E.T. once more.

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This very week was no different.

I’m standing in the back of the classroom should I need to escape. Meanwhile, I’m try to justify my willing presence on Lucifer’s playground by telling myself, hey, hour after iPod-playlist-on-repeat hour on the Stairmaster is enough to make anyone forget how much this class makes them want to die. The thought of yet another session of “working in” with some smelly roid-rager in a tank top with armholes big enough for each nipple to poke out is a fair reason to duck into the aerobics room.