Thursday, June 02, 2005

Million Dollar Sue

You guys will never guess what I have.

I didn't even know that I had it myself until a few short hours ago.

Can you guess? There's no way.

I have a mean left hook.

Moreover, following my inaugural session with a boxing coach, I have learned the following piece of information: I am a natural.

This is the awesomest news I have ever received.

Now, normally when somebody tells me surprisingly flattering things about myself, particularly in arenas (sports) where I have heretofore shown zero promise, I would be skeptical. But I saw myself, and frankly, I have to agree.

My normal Thursday cardio kickboxing class was canceled, and so eager to work off my hot dog and cookie dough jiggles post-beach, I settled on a little boxing instruction from my gym's boxing coach, Russell.

Normally, in all of my fitness classes, I look completely ridiculous. Whether I'm stuggling with the flex-y ball or tripping over the step or flapping my gangly arms and legs about, I dread catching sight of myself in the mirrors. But when I put on those boxing gloves—I won't lie to you people—I looked bad ass. Russell showed me how to hold the gloves in front of my face protectively, how to jab and pull back all superfast, how to twist from the waist when I hook and use that momentum rather than muscle.

Then he held up the pads. "Gimme one! Two! Gimme one, two!" I worked up to left jab, right jab, left hook, duck!, right jab. Russell stepped back shaking his hand out. "Damn girl! You gon' mess somebody up. You sure don't punch like you look." (As aforementioned, I looked bad ass so I'm sure I don't know what he's talking about.)

Anyway, now I love boxing. Russell told me that the reason I found it fun was because the sport worked both sides of my brain. I told him that I think it's because I really like hitting things. And as I ducked my head into it towards the end of the hour, I could see on the periphery of my vision the next class waiting outside for us to finish, watching me intently. It was the yoga class, and as they gently shifted from one willowy, barefooted leg to the other, tenderly cradling their wound-up mats, I tucked in and jabbed and hooked and grunted with everything I had. I would have done anything, anything!, to have had a mouthful of blood to spit out as they placidly padded in. Sting like a bee, ya'll. Sting like a bee.


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