I'm sore, creaky, crunchy and not able to fully lower myself onto the toilet without groaning. (This behavior doesn't go over well in most ladies rooms.)

I'm in my third session of fitness boot camp, and I asked for this mess. Hell, I paid for it.

Stacy's Boot Camp is a thrice-weekly, hour-long torture session involving running, squats, lunges, chin-ups, push-ups, sprints, high-knee jumps and other sick pursuits taking place in Central Park. I've opted out of the 7 a.m. class and instead trudge up to the park after work for the 6:30 p.m. session to meet up with 15 other folks whose fathers didn't spend enough time with them during childhood. (That's the only psychological reasoning I can fathom from this type of self-abuse.)

Stacy herself is a lovely 30-something broad whom I know nothing about. I do know that she's a wealth of information and very understanding of the fact that I ruined my shoulder by playing too much intermediate-level tennis and carrying an advanced-level handbag for 10 years. (No matter how many times my chiropractor sticks her elbow into it, it's not getting any better.) Stacy is generous enough to modify the exercises for the injured while giving us just as vigorous a workout as the other sorry saps.

Despite the moaning, aching and bitching, I actually really like the challenge, and I like the results on my body. (Parts are jiggling less!) It's the opposite of gym class, where I felt belittled and berated. (Mostly by Ms. LaFarge, the teacher who conveniently now wants to be friends on Facebook. Ignore.) In this incarnation of PE, I feel empowered. I feel macho, tough and ready for anything.

It's a funny group dynamic -- there's a hint of competition even though there's no prize at the end of the three weeks. There's a collective, underlying disdain for Stacy, as she's the one "forcing" us do all this horrible stuff. There's also a sense of camaraderie, as we push each other and yell, "You can do it! One more!", even when we doubt our own ability to do one more of anything.

This experience is a far cry from real boot camp, as the only imminent danger here is sticking your hand in dog poo during a push-up. And it's certainly not on par with "The Biggest Loser" in terms of mind-boggling transformations. Most of the participants here are in some kind of shape, and there's no crying or emergency helicopter operations coming in to rescue any of us.

As I continue with this little adventure, I acknowledge that no one is asking me to participate, no one is tracking my progress except for me. I guess that's what the real choice is: doing something challenging when there's no grade or monetary reward. See Dad, I am growing up! Dad? Now if you'll excuse me, I need a good five minutes to get up from my chair.

Jeni Aron (alias the Clutter Cowgirl) is a frequent Lemondrop contributor, raging Virgo and professional organizer living in New York City.