A person can get stuck in a rut, you know?
Wake up, feed the cats, make coffee..............write.........nag my kids and any others who happen to be loitering about........screw around......clean things.....feed the cats again........read.....write.........eat things I shouldn't........go to the gym...lift weights, run on the elliptical.........watch British mysteries..fall asleep.
Like that.
Sometime last week, I'd finished my elliptical workout and Hans and Franz were hogging the weight benches. I've told you about my impulse control issues so to avoid trouble, I strolled into the small classroom thinking I'd kill some time checking text messages. As if overcome by instinct, I picked up the pink boxing gloves that lay there like pieces of already-chewed Bubble Yum, slipped them onto my hands where they felt as if they'd been made for me, and started punching away on the heavy bag.
Hey, this feels good!
Since then, I have used the heavy bag every time we've gone to the gym. Sometimes I use the red dingly bag, too, but that little sucker is wily and needs to be lowered and I'm not climbing up on the folding chair again to do it. I already had to climb up once and rehang the heavy bag after I knocked it loose. (Thanks MathMan for doing the heavy lifting, literally!)
But holy cripes, who knew this punching thing was so addictive?
As my brother says, I come from a family where "the only emotion we embrace is anger." So, yeah. This should come as no surprise. My pugilistic tendencies are deep-seated and probably genetic even as I strain to keep them smothered under a pile of self delusion and discarded dreams.
I come from a long line of hotheads stretching all the way back to Ireland and Scotland, I remind myself. They weren't the whiskey drinking, song singing fun Irish and Scots you see in movies and travel documentaries. At least, they weren't by the time they'd come to inhabit a bend of the Ohio River. They didn't temper their tempers with spirits. They were mouthy and angry and there would have been a lot of brawling had alcohol been involved. Maybe it was because they were Protestant instead of Catholic, but rather than enhancing their personalities with fermented drinks, they chose to overeat things covered with gravy and grind their teeth in silent rebuke of the world.
As for me - the only person I've ever actually fought with was my sister. The last time we bare-knuckled, we pretty much beat the hell out of one another. Oh, and there was that guy I grabbed by the ears and bashed his head against the car window frame, but that was just good timing on my part. Had he not been disadvantaged by sitting in a car and being three sheets to the wind, that embarrassing episode would not have happened.
So now I want to learn how to box properly. I don't want to break my hands. I like the adrenaline rush of pounding the daylights out of the bag, but I want to do it correctly.
There's one problem. The eventual opponent. I shared my concern with MathMan. "I want to box, but I don't know if I can take the punches."
MathMan reminded me that I'd had three babies with no pharmaceutical assistance. "I think you can take pain."
"Yeah, but they won't be punching me in the uterus and vagina. Much."
"How will you know if you never try?"
I wonder if he might enjoy seeing me get the snot beat out of me as a small repayment for my past sins. Sure it's wrong to be so suspicious, but I can't say I'd blame him.
For now, it's me and the heavy bag, those rockin' pink gloves and the instructions I got off youtube. But I'm serious. I want to learn to fight. The stress release benefits alone would make it worth it. If I'm going to do it, I want to do it right. Maybe like this....
Video via theotherlisa Lisa Brackman author of Rock Paper Tiger.
