Bootcamp. Friday. 12:15-1:00. New York Sports Club. 48th and 2nd. While other New Yorkers are scarfing down Chick-fil-A, I’m headed here. I get to the locker room with three minutes to spare. The military-man-turned-exercise-instructor just loves that. “When you’re on time, you’re late,” he’s been known to say. I zip open my pack. Pull out my lock. Put away my phone. Shit. I forgot my workout clothes. How could I do that? Now I’m faced with a dilemma. Skip the class - or… (I look at what I’m wearing. Patagonia hiking pants and a fitted black t-shirt from Uniqlo). Could I possibly roll in like this? If you consider me your friend, you already know what decision I made. I rolled up the legs of my pants to just below the knees. I have no idea why. Then I ran down the stairs to Studio 1. The class is full. Mr. Full Metal Jacket is walking everyone through the circuit. I pull on the door. Locked. I go to the other door. Locked. He sees me through the glass. Ignores me. As I’m walking away defeated I hear ‘click.’ A brave soul in the class unlocked the door for me. I walked in, the drill sergeant seized me up and my ridiculous outfit. I’m pouring in sweat from embarrassment before he even blows his whistle. I missed all his instructions, so I don’t know what to do. There were 15 :60-second stations of push-ups, shuttle runs, mountain climbers, burpees and other forms for aerobic torture. For 45 minutes, he singled me out and rode me into the ground. The whole time I’m sweating through my work shirt like a pig, and constantly rolling up my pant legs, still having no idea why I’m doing that. By the end of the class, I was soaked, with nothing clean and dry to change into. I’ll never forget my workout clothes again. I need a chicken sandwich.