Yesterday I got it into my head that I was going to bike past an exercise station on the way home and do some pull-ups, etc. When I arrived at the station, on the grounds of a nearby high school, I was dismayed to find that it had been removed. WTF?!
Arriving home, I found out that our toddler was asleep in the car, thus occupying wife and leaving the apartment to me. I managed about ten minutes of sit-ups and push-ups, started in on some curls, and they came in the door. End of session.
Still resolved to manage something, I decided to go to an early bird kickboxing workout the next day (today).
The instructor wore one of those loose fitting workout outfits, all white with stripes down the sides, microphone headset jammed down over his gel-spiked hair. Not the usual instructor I’ve had the four or five times I’ve actually done this. It’s okay, I thought, how different can they be? It’s the same studio.
Very different. Different music (80s remixed), different attitude. He bounced even more, if that’s possible, and did everything tightly. It was hard to tell if he was doing a hook or uppercut, roundhouse or front kick.
After about twenty minutes I realized that I hadn’t had to pause to catch my breath, which was heartening. Then we started doing this thing where you crouch down to the floor and then come up into a kind of karate-kid flying front kick. Cool, I can do that. Of course, I don’t so much fly as hover briefly, and the kick isn’t to the head but somewhere vaguely torso-ish, but I can do that.
Then we switch to something else and I’m all pleased with myself when the effort that went into those crouch/kicks hits me like a bear hug around my ribs, and the rest of the class is downhill. I’m covered in sweat, wondering when it will be over, and just trying to look like I’m keeping up.
Now I’m wishing for the usual instructor. It’s Stockholm syndrome. I want my usual punishment. Ugh. Shake it off. Not sane.
Things start to blur. “You can do it!” I can’t keep doing this. “This is it!” Uh, you just said that a couple minutes ago – Do you think we have the memories of goldfish? “Higher.” Yeah right. That chick over there is doing much worse that me. Good to know. I’m gonna stick with taking out imaginary knees and thigh-bones.
Now and then he brings around these black plastic sheets that he makes people kick. They crackle and make a loud noise no matter how well you kick them. He never holds them out for me. I’m obviously not worthy. But he does toss them on the ground near my feet. A few glances between jab cross jab confirm that those are in fact X-rays.
Whose X-rays? Why on earth are we kicking X-rays? Are these students who didn’t survive? Criminals? Mementos of the instructor’s martial injuries?
Then a brief feeling of serenity washes over me. Those are the keytones. Forgot all about that benefit of aerobic exercise. Haven’t felt that in years–since back when my ankles would let me jog long enough to get a runner’s high. Or else they’re piping some sort of gas into the building.
Okay, I may just stick with this kickboxing thing for a while.
