"Private Robinson, if you don't know how to march yet, then you'd better f***ing run! MOVE, MOVE, MOVE!'' In what has to be one of the craziest things I've done in my journalistic career, I joined the Bermuda Regiment for two days to experience what it's like being a woman in the military -- from an insider's perspective.

Let me begin by admitting I'm not exactly military material: I'm the "artsy-fartsy'' type, I'm a bit out of shape, I'm not really a "team player'' and I absolutely hate it when people try to tell me what to do.

But although I can guarantee that I'll never become Bermuda's own version of GI Jane, the seven servicewomen who volunteered to tough it out with the boys had excellent reasons for doing so -- See article below .

In my humble opinion, there are three major considerations any woman should think about before enlisting: whether you're willing to withstand verbal abuse, able to endure gruelling physical workouts, and tolerate the suspension of your rights and liberties.

Since I work in a newsroom, all the cursing really wasn't any different from my usual day-to-day experience -- but I warn women who have problems with foul language that they might find the soldiers' colourful vernacular a bit upsetting.

I had a more difficult time with the physical side of things -- every morning we would wake up at about 5.15 a.m. to prepare for a 6 a.m. run. Since I had just recovered from the flu, I spent most of the two-mile jog gasping for air like a fish out of water.

The rest of the day's schedule consisted of Muster (which is where officers inspect your uniform, cap badge and boots that you arduously polish), Drill (where you learn to march, salute, turn, etc), weapon training, field craft, first aid and survival.

I spent one afternoon crawling on my belly across the sand behind Chaplin Bay, dressed in heavy camouflage with ten pounds of kit on my back -- crickets jumping on me -- looking for "the enemy'' as the smell of crushed fennel and my own sweat filled my nostrils.

Another afternoon was spent marching in the rain in stiff, uncomfortable drill boots.

A sense of humour helped to keep morale high as recruits made jokes about what to use instead of toilet paper when stuck in the field -- "a baygrape leaf or the inside of your sergeant's cap?'' My complaints about the Regiment were probably no different from those of the men who were conscripted; gender was not one of them.

The male recruits are usually too exhausted and angry to bother with petty flirtation and after a while, I actually forgot about gender dynamics -- beyond taking a few mental notes about a particularly fine officer or two.

I likened the process to another rite of passage that I chose to pass up for similar reasons -- pledging a sorority or fraternity.

Much like pledging, the military has the potential to instil a sense of teamwork and discipline into young men and women.

However, as so often happens with pledging, there is equal potential for those in charge to abuse their power. Even for the short period of time I was there, I could see the difference between officers who were trying to whip the recruits into shape to build discipline, and those who were more interested in being obeyed simply to feel powerful.

Even some of the officers who seemed like pretty decent fellows got me and everyone else vexed -- after spending forty-five minutes standing at attention in the "liquid sunshine'' which sensible people call rain, I wanted to submit my sergeant to slow torture.

Being stripped of my basic freedom was a deep situation as well. After a while, a military environment feels like prison because you don't have control over yourself.

I saw one guy who refused to put a shirt in his mouth and was dragged off to the military jail after being forced to apologise in the middle of the dining area.

Another recruit was forced to run, although his feet were blistered and was probably more out of shape than me.

The Regiment plays no favourites. Because the women were scattered throughout different platoons as opposed to being segregated into one section of one platoon, we were given the same treatment as everyone else.

And when some dopey 18-year-old with an authority problem annoyed the sergeant, my well-disciplined, 24-year-old self had to drop and give 20 push-ups along with the rest of my section (thus my dislike for teamwork).

But I will say that most officers seemed to be less gratuitously evil to me, either because I'm a woman or because I'm a reporter.

Perhaps because of the sexist society we're all raised in, women aren't seen as being a real threat to authority -- and it's more of a challenge to break the will of an 18-year-old with a sulky face than a woman with a slight attitude problem.

And hair, especially for me, was a real issue that brought me a bit of unwelcomed attention.

Although women do not have to submit themselves to the infamous military buzzcut, servicewomen are expected to have their hair pulled back or slicked down -- which was next to impossible for me since I'm in the process of growing dredlocks.

But I was told by more than one officer that I needed to get my hair situation sorted out, since my curls were considered a "distraction'' to the male soldiers.

I will admit the experience wasn't all bad. The highlight of my bootcamp was definitely the firing range. Like so many other sick puppies, I've always wanted to fire a weapon. It turns out that I'm a natural Rambo, meaning I'm actually quite good at handling a rifle.

My difficulty with the Regiment's physical training forced me to come face-to-face with how out of shape I really am -- and it's caused me to commit to a steadier exercise programme.

And I can understand my sisters-in-arms when they said being in the Regiment forces you to focus on yourself -- I thought a lot less about my boyfriend and family because I was too busy concentrating on survival.

The servicewomen I met were all very cool and very impressive women for different reasons. I mean, let's be real -- you won't find the run-of-the-mill type of shallow behaviour from a woman willing to endure boot camp.

And to be frank, it was a relief to have conversations with Bermudian women who were not boring my life with the usual fashion critique and he-said-she-said dialogue.

All in all, I was richer for the experience -- it's a conversation piece that not too many of my ace-girls can top and my male friends give me credit for being pretty gutsy.

ACTION HEROES -- Regiment recruits dress for battle after learning how to handle their weapons.

STRAIGHT SHOOTERS -- A natural Rambo, reporter Kim Dismont Robinson found weapons' training to be one of the highlights of her Bermuda Regiment boot camp experience.

Private Robinson "I'm not exactly military material''