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My boot camp instructor is evil. And I love her.

The morning Drill O’ Pain starts like this:

Alarm goes OFF at 5:15 and DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT SNOOZING. Fumble (I’m hurrying, I’m HURRYING) into my workout clothes in the dark. I’m running out the house (already panting, where’s my water?!) and driving myself in a mad frenzy, praying the whole time that I make it to the gym (ON TIME!) to line up with twelve other disheveled-looking women who have elected to work out with The Evil One.

We are all professional, self-respecting women who wear lipstick, high heels and boss other people around, but no one would know this at quick glance, at our trembling assembly line of fear.

The general rule is that if we work out inside the gym, someone is likely to vomit on the treadmill, but if we’re sentenced to outside training for the hour, we worry that someone’s gonna end up dead.

Because we learned the torture versus extreme torture rule pretty quick, our group often begins a desperate muttering of “please not outside, please not outside” as soon as we get into line. She can smell our apprehension. And this seals the deal.

“Get in formation. We’re heading out. Leave your waters behind.”

I’m dead. And I’m gonna die thirsty.

This morning the beginning of the end begins with blindfolds, wet grass and fresh, baked cupcakes.

“Get on the ground,” she barks. We drop to our knees (a word about shorts. Never a good idea under these circumstances).

Someone’s gonna end up dead.

She explains the obstacle course of cupcakes (white sugar- BAD!) that she’s devised for us. It’s a hidden maze of frosting and flour in tall blades of grass that we’re forced to navigate in total blindness. One false move- should even a cuticle graze the cup of the cake- and it’s one mile, my pretty.

The miles add up fast and The Evil One is enjoying every minute of this frantic scene. Twelve women crawling around on the ground with scraped up hands and knees, begging for proper directions (Which Way, Evil One? Left or right?!)

Once completely covered in blue food coloring (who buys blue cupcakes), dirt, blood and your basic drool, we’re up off the ground, blindfolds ripped off (how very generous, thank you) and running for our lives.

“How do you feel?” she yells.

Are you kidding me?

But, truthfully, I feel good- disgustingly filthy and hideous – but good, and very much alive.

She yells, “Let me hear you say, ‘I’m selfish!’”

The Evil One explains that this sweaty, dirty, achy, humiliating, painful hour of suffering is all ours. It’s ours to OWN. One hour to spend on our bodies and our minds. No one tugging, asking, talking or needing us in any way (Thank God because I can barely take another step without peeing on myself). An hour to be self-aware and self-consumed. An hour to take care of ourselves because for the rest of the day we’ll be taking care of everyone else.

She’s right and this is why I heart boot camp.

This early morning hour of mine takes me out of the S-mom routine just long enough to miss breakfast table battles over milk, endless searches for socks and the infinite line of questioning: “It’s time to go, why AREN’T YOU READY?”

If I stay home for this, I become The Evil One. And I’d much rather reserve this title for someone else. My boot camp instructor fills the role just perfectly.

I feel just fine using my “selfish” time to opt out on this disciplinary portion of the day because often, boot camp is a breeze compared to the stepmom drill. One is a grueling physical challenge, the other mental. Both involve feeling desperately around in the dark.