The other day, I had a rare late morning/early afternoon off, so I checked the gym schedule for a class, saw kickboxing at the right time, and went.
Two days later, I'm still struggling to lift my arms and put a bra on.
What I expected was a toned, 40ish woman standing in front of the class, instructing us to punch and kick the air in reps of 8, all to the tune of dance hits of the '90s. Instead, I found an Ultimate Fighting Champion/Brad Pitt in Fight Club, complete with the tattoos and mohawk, wrapping my hands and handing me boxing gloves, and blaring Eminem-type rap music with lyrics like, "take that, mother fuckaaaaa." And yet somehow, while he was screaming "Push-ups! Go!" and "Mountain climbers! Go!" over said rap music during our "warm-up" (which had me sweating profusely in mere seconds) I found something about it oddly sexy. Hmmm...
Since I was new to the class, I had the dubious honor of being paired with the instructor so he could show me the proper fighting technique. It was brilliant, actually. For 40 minutes, I did my best to beat the snot out of a man. It was incredibly therapeutic.
Emotionally unavailable?
THWAK!
$800 to fix my car? Do you know how many pairs of shoes I could get with that?
POW!
Not to mention the self-defense skills I picked up as Brad Pitt taught me how to use knees and elbows, as well as a jab and right hook.
So yes, every inch of me hurts, from my abs to the palms of my hands. (Seriously, the palms of my hands!) But I'm itching to do it again, and I would recommend you do the same.
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