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It all started with the misguided decision that I should try something new. Why I thought the answer was boot-camp class and not a nice wine-tasting class remains a mystery.

The first sign of trouble appears when I see the teacher, whom I will call Miss Perky. She's just finished teaching a weights-workout class, yet she remains alert and ready to lead boot camp. She is a petite, lean, muscle-covered machine. Tiny droplets of enthusiasm glisten on her forehead.

I ask her what gear I need. She says to grab a step and light, medium and heavy weights, though only one of each size. I pick up the lightest triplet of weights possible, set up my step and survey my classmates. Although this is new-year's-resolution season, I see no curvy comrades. Instead I see very fit men and women, possibly bionic. I ignore this red flag at my own peril.

The class starts at 5:45 p.m. with jumping jacks. Soon we are punching, jabbing and shuffling while holding a weight in our right hand. We do three sets of each move amid Miss Perky's shouts of "UPGRADE!" - our cue to frantically chuck the weight aside and snatch a heavier one without missing a beat.

The stereo is playing popular songs wound up to a frenzied tempo designed to explode the human heart. Miss Perky is singing along, as holding a heavy weight while doing speed drills on her three-tiered step has not yet put her out of breath. Meanwhile, I've decided I'm not going to "UPGRADE!" except occasionally, and never to the heaviest weight.

By 6:25, she's still on the right arm. This does not bode well. Assuming this is an hour-long class, she's past due to change sides. By the time she finally switches arms, I am exhausted and despondent. I'm barely going through the motions, sullen as a knocked-up check-out girl.

As we near the one-hour point, Miss Perky whips out the truly crazy moves. My classmates don't seem daunted, but all I can think is, "Oh, hell, no." I have already been "modifying," doing my lunges off the step at a normal speed rather than attempting her scissor-legged, lunge-bounce. I've already put my head below my pounding heart to try her plank-like, kicky thing, AND NOW, I'm supposed to mimic her as she bounces out of push-up position and jumps atop her precariously high step?

By the time she suggests push-ups, I want her dead. It is unclear whether this has anything to do with the fact that I forgot to eat my protein bar at 4 p.m., and so my last food was approximately six hours ago, or whether my homicidal urges are completely appropriate given the circumstances. Rather than cooling the class down, she has kicked it up a gear. As we were already in super-high gear, I have no idea what to call this. It's the kind of gear that makes normal people throw a rod. All I know is that I am totaled, my engine steaming and hissing with futility.

Just past the hour mark, Miss Perky shows no signs of slowing down. The voice in my head that had urged me not to quit walked out 15 minutes ago. I decide to throw in the sweaty towel. I put my gear away and go, leaving the maniacs and their supreme leader behind.

Next time I want to try something new, I'm going to the cute little Italian trattoria I've heard so much about. I can't think of a better way to "UPGRADE!"

- Alaina Smith

Born with an appreciation for all things sedentary, Alaina Smith pursues her love of great stories by writing, reading and watching movies with her husband, Frank. Her true tales appear in anthology series including Chicken Soup for the Soul, Chocolate for Women, A Cup of Comfort and more.