With the temperature beginning to rise and the sun finally making an appearance in the sky, there are a few things that are certain. And one of those things involves having to wear a bathing suit.

There’s no fighting it - spring is here, and quickly summer will be in full effect. And although the season is popular for spring cleaning, there are other matters to face.

One of which entails me getting back into shape.

For me to say I wasn’t active all winter long would be a lie. I occasionally made my appearance at the gym, ran for about 20 minutes and felt very productive. OK - so “occasionally” was like four times during winter break. I had good intentions. I even bought new tennis shoes.

To admit I’m not in great shape is not easy for me. I played competitive tennis for more than 10 years, and I have always viewed myself as an athlete - based on the fact I own more pairs of Adidas warm-up pants than I do jeans.

But last week, I found out the only triathlon I am ready to compete in would include events such as the “finding a shirt at a store 10 minutes before closing race” and “walking down stairs in a really long sweater and six-inch platforms in less than three minutes dash” and “trying on 15 shirts before I decide what I want to wear for the day relay.”

Not exactly the Olympics, I know.

In my state of denial, I went to my gym last week with the intentions of sweating hard, getting sore and feeling great.

To kick off my new life of fitness, I went with a friend to a kickboxing class. This went pretty well - except with my competitive personality, I didn’t like that my friend could kick higher than me. But that aside, I made my breakthrough into what I felt was a good way to begin my “spring training.”

Then I got ambitious. Big mistake.

I decided to do a class called “boot camp” last week. It sounded really fun and promising. I was all fired up (in my Adidas pants, of course) and motivated to work hard. As I was stretching my back in the aerobic room, in ran a man decked out in military green, blowing a whistle and yelling. He came right up to me and yelled, “You’re new - state your name, last name first.”

“Rachel Wright, sir!” I yelled, not realizing I already failed the task.

“Wright, Rachel - do you have a problem with directions? Give me 20 push-ups.”

I was in trouble, and my own personal hell.

The funniest thing was that people in this class were very into it, saluting the guy and carrying out orders.

Once I finished my push-ups, cursing the man who made me do them, I realized this was not my 10th-grade gym class.

I did not have to be there.

So, being the adult I am, I asked permission to go to the bathroom, slid out of the class, jogged out of view and sprinted to my car in the parking lot. I now do not show my face at the gym between the hours of 1 p.m. and 3 p.m. on Saturdays.

I realized my pathetic attempt at a difficult workout, I thought back and evaluated how I felt knowing I had to lie to get out of a class people pay money to attend.

I felt pretty damn good about myself. I outsmarted Captain Military - I rule.

Now with that aside, I have begun a much better approach to my workout regime, and one I think I will stick to. I am taking it slow, and working with a trainer to make sure I don’t hurt myself.

She recommends I also write down everything I eat. Food logs are pretty funny to use. I find myself justifying why the 12 Hershey’s Kisses I ate didn’t need to be written down - they’re so little. And the fries my friend ordered at a restaurant that I ate half of don’t count either - I mean, I didn’t order them.

The one lesson I did learn this year is to try to not do this to myself next winter. Being healthy is so important, and this new lifestyle of mine is one I wish to keep up.

And one day, I will do that boot camp class, and be so good they’ll ask me to teach it.

Or maybe not.

Rachel Wright can be found hiding from a certain instructor at the gym, or at wrightr9@msu.edu.`