I intended to post an account of my kickboxing experience yesterday. Alas, a freak Halloween snowstorm knocked out our power, leaving me helplessly offline. So yesterday’s post is below. As for today, well, telling my kids that we couldn’t go to their
Halloween parties and that we were without power again took some stamina. We’re all a little scarred from Hurricane Irene’s marathon no-shower power outage, so candlelight went from novelty to annoyance in record time.
My toe hurts, and it’s purple. The rest of my body hurts, too, but hasn’t changed colors (yet).
Judging by the heavy metal blaring through the speakers and the ex-marine wrapping his hands before donning boxing gloves, I was out of my element in yesterday’s kickboxing class.
Not to say that the instructor and the other kickboxers weren’t friendly; they were. Most were just a little intimidating. Hardcore. Only one was a newbie; she only had two weeks under her belt. I stood next to her. I don’t remember her name. We’ll call her Lila.
We started with stretches and some slo-mo practice in the mirror. “Lift and thrust your knee, like you are going for the groin.” Simple enough. I aimed for my imaginary opponent’s groin and ended up doing a signature Michael Jackson dance move.
As I failed to imitate the instructor’s moves, I thought: I am uninjured now. I’d like to stay that way. I think I’ll play it safe and just tap the bag lightly.
But I didn’t anticipate how much fun hitting the bag would be. I loved hitting it. Loved it. Loved watching it rock away from me. Loved feeling like a badass. I cannot tell you the identity of the face I superimposed on the bag but believe me, that bag deserved everything it got.
There was a bad moment when I almost hit myself in the face. You’re supposed to guard your face with whichever hand isn’t busy punching (with both when you are kicking) and as anyone who has trouble patting their head and rubbing their belly simultaneously can tell you, it’s easy to confuse your limbs with too many instructions.
As much as I loved punching the bag, the roundhouse kick was even better. I forgot about being cautious and just went for it. It shows. I look like I need a walker today.
After we showed the bags a thing or two, our instructor said, “Ok, now I’m gonna beat you guys up a little.” For one panicky moment, I thought we might actually spar and wondered how quickly I could run out the door. Whether I could get the gloves off in time or if I’d just have to steal them. To my dismay, Lila responded with a smile and two thumbs up. I put some distance between us.
Once I found out what he meant, I wished I had run. Beating us up meant 25 jumping squats, 25 sit-ups, 25 push-ups and 25 burpees, which aren’t as fun as the name implies. Then we did it again. And, oh yeah, again.
I know that my blog is partly about telling the truth in difficult situations. But I didn’t do 25 of anything before moving on to the next exercise. Sue me.
When we were done, everyone bowed and high fived each other without a trace of boredom, embarrassment or cynicism. These people sincerely congratulated me for taking the class. It was…really nice. Which is good, because any of them, including Lila, could probably kick my butt without breaking a sweat.
Before I left, the instructor walked me through their training program and the different colored belts you can earn. How about a smaller belt? Could I work my way into one of those?
I’d really like to go back and hit that bag again. I probably should examine the source of that urge, but I don’t really want to.
I don’t want to look too closely at my purple toe either. I think I may lose my toenail.