There were a couple of issues I faced with this new commitment, aside from my own deep-seated desire to remain deeply seated. First, I live in a community laden with options, and I am a woman laden with indecision. I knew this much: I'm 40, 4-0, and I like to punch and kick and punch.
Points for anyone who got that.
No? Moving on.
So my first desire was to punch stuff, and my second was to punch stuff in a location close to where I lived. That narrowed the options considerably, and Title Boxing seemed to be the answer. Plus, the first class was free. Boom.
My first class was on a rainy Sunday with this drill sergeant-type instructor. Perfect. She pushed, and pushed, and stayed on me, and called me Mama, which was oddly comforting (let's not go too deep with this), and I was sore for two days afterward. Then I got a follow-up call a couple of days later, inquiring about my level of satisfaction with my Title experience, during which I discovered that there was a current Groupon.
Done and done. These were my people.
Class number two was my first 5:30 a.m. foray, as well as my first kickboxing class. I was a little smug, because of my prior 18 months of combat cardio classes.
I realized about 10 minutes in that those classes didn't mean shit. Air-kicking and bag-kicking, weirdly, were not the same. But it was still kind of easy, once I got my stance and leg placement down. In no time at all, my smug had morphed to full-blown.
"Well, probably these classes are easy because I'm just naturally in prime physical condition, and good luck coming up with something too hard for me. Nice try, Title Boxing. You couldn't have known, honey. Don't blame yourself." I'm not going to say this was what I thought verbatim, but I'm not going to say it wasn't, either. The bottom line was that I didn't feel like I was getting a workout worthy of spending actual money on. This is how we learn, though, so I figured I'd just finish out my Groupon and then move on to the next gig.
Let me back up here, due to my propensity for all things disjointed, and add that kickboxing was also my first Tyler class. He's the instructor. I should mention that I have no idea what his name actually is, but I bet it's Tyler.
I digress, though. So this morning I went back, for 5:30 a.m. Power Hour Boxing. I didn't know if Tyler was like, strictly a kickboxing guy, and therefore if I should expect to see someone else teaching regular boxing, but nope, he was there. I was crazy relieved, because I didn't really feel like working that hard, and I knew in my heart that I could trust Tyler not to push me.
But Tyler, like so many before him, let me down. For the next 60 minutes, I was either running, speed-punching, or doing some form of walking lunge/jumping jack/deep squat. I didn't even have time for my 10 water breaks. It hurt. It hurt to breathe, I was pretty sure I tasted blood, and there was a very real, very terrifying span of seconds where I suspected that I was sweating to the point of smelling unpleasant.
The insult added to those layers of injury came when I inadvertently saw my reflection, started to laugh at the terrible form, and then realized those were my own arms flailing like a high-school girl-fight stereotype.
Before I had time to recover from the horror, I saw him approaching me. I started to furiously telegraph him in my mind. "Tyler, now is not a good time. I'm working through some things. I fell down some stairs a few months ago, and my arms still aren't right. I don't want to talk about my arms right now."
He ignored all of my non-verbal entreaties and resting bitch face. He was a damn machine. He just kept approaching. Then he was there. Next to me. My useless arms fell to my useless sides. I was defeated, and we both knew it. I steeled myself for the inevitable teaching moment, and reminded myself not to activate my tendency toward oppositional defiance.
"Hey," he said, gently, because above all else, Tyler is a gentleman. "I really like your bright shoes."
That was not what I was expecting. My reaction center, having been padlocking the potential oppositional defiance backlash, left the unable-to-handle-compliments section wide open and completely unmanned. Before my brain had fully processed his throwaway comment, my mouth was open and words were coming out. There was no time. THERE WAS NO TIME.
"I really like your bright sweatshirt."
And there it was. Words, once spoken, that could never be taken back. Words hanging in the stale air that I couldn't flail out and grab with my useless arms.
His sweatshirt wasn't bright. Not even a little.
He smiled at me, as one would smile at someone once they realized they were dealing with an vastly inferior intellect, and backed away. Facing me, so as to be able to react if I said something else incomprehensible.
The important thing that came out of the exchange was that he only encouraged me from that point forth, as one would a slow child.
So I got through that excruciating class, managed to bid Tyler a simultaneously muttered and strangled good day, and moved on to the next tortured part of my new routine: healthy food.
But I'm too hungry to talk about that right now.
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