Wednesday, May 16, 2012

kickboxing class a.k.a. today's near death experience

After months of recumbent bike in front of the TV and elliptical machine at the gym, I wanted to change how I sweated off my fat.
My favorite exercise is Zumba, even though it's humiliating to admit.
If I said I loved water aerobics, there's at least a comedic and/or hipster irony to it, like wearing a sweatband or high striped socks. But Zumba really is all remixed musica and women in lycra, and I totally love it.
And that's what I had in mind when I put my champion bra on this morning.

Unfortunately, the class was kickboxing instead.

"No problem," I thought. I can handle kickboxing.
A step towards being more like an MMA fighter is a step in the right direction.

I arrive and find that most of the class is older than me, shorter than me, and scrappier looking than me. But there were two other ostrich shaped women that assuaged my fears that I had just paid my drop in class fee into a muy thai studio.

This was the instructor. But unlike that pic, she was super enthusiastic and smiling. Which helped, the same way an EMT asks you lighthearted questions to keep you talking and conscious in the ambulance, so you don't die.

I'm going to add kickboxing to the list of things that only short people are good at, along with gymnastics, horse-riding, and karate. To kick my big long turkey leg out took twice the time it took for my smaller comrades. I looked like one of the Yo Gabba's doing the moves, and the fact that the other big-birds did too, no longer mattered.

After only 20 min I found myself wishing for push-ups and sit-ups. Only when we finally did them, I was so awful at it that I wished to get back up and punch the air.
I started envisioning what weight class would have to be established to accommodate my size and skill if I were to compete. Potato weight? In this weight, no one is as handicapped as I am and they just string a big sack of potatoes up in the air to see if I can inflict any damage, or if I just hurt myself.  After today I think the sack would be declared the winner.

As I was leaving the class, and collecting what was left of my self-respect, this nice older Vietnamese lady told me that she had arthritis in her shoulder. This same woman had stood in front of me and nailed every move. So she's either a retired ninja, or I am so pathetic that a middle aged arthritic just showed me up big time. 'Pretty sure it's the latter.


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