I’m a girl. (This just in…) Culturally, this means that I do not include in my definition of superawesomefitnessness the ability to win a physical fight. I have never watched a pay-per-view MMA match or boxing match. I have, however, seen most of the Rocky movies and When We Were Kings. I admire, in a casual way, Muhammad Ali, in part because of his poetic way of speaking and in part because I adopt his beat-Foreman philosophy (take whatever he dishes out until he’s exhausted; then punch him out) in my life.
My son loves boxing. He joined a boxing gym a while back and he comes home drenched in sweat and exhausted and happy. Which made me want to try it. And not just because I like to try new things. Yesterday he took me with him.
It was incredibly humbling and fun. I jumped rope and found out I’ve been doing it wrong. It’s also much harder than it was in the “Not last night but the night before” days. The speed bag may be possessed and my exorcism ability needs some work. The big gloves thwack into the padded thingie (did not learn the technical term for the big bar covered in red and black duct tape on the wall) with such a pleasing sound. The only part where I felt competent was when I finally got to do the circuit: crunches, pushups, squats, mountain climbers, no problem.
I came home two hours later both wiped out and energized. I may do it again. But I draw the line at the soggy gray sweatpants and the raw eggs for breakfast.