questionable decision #47

But who's counting? 

Number one may have been the tattoo. Forty-six may have been a Jason Mraz concert that I was not emotionally prepared to deal with. 

Forty seven was today. 

I'll set the record straight here - I was under no delusions that taking a boxing class would be fun, however, after weeks of searching for a daytime karate class that I could take while Neeks was in school, I decided that a free boxing class might be an appropriate substitute. I further resolved, that given my two instructor options, and my rapidly advancing age, I would not be taking a fitness class from anyone named Kylie. Call me shallow, but I am in no psychological state to be told what to do by someone in a matching lululemon ensemble with less than 3 percent body fat, so I made what I believed to be the most judicious choice, and registered for a Monday morning class with Marc. 

Marc. Probably an ex-PE teacher who'd always dreamed of owning his own gym. Maybe a retiree, whose Olympic dreams had been sidelined by a blown ACL and now he just wanted to pass the torch to the next generation. Marc would understand that I've been siting on my ass for 8 months. Marc would get me. He'd be the kindhearted Mr. Miagi. He'd wander through the gym like that old man with the beanie in Rocky. Marc would be like the Dumbledore of physical fitness, dispensing just the right amount of encouragement and wisdom to keep me motivated. 

You can see where this is going right? 

Marc - short for Marco - was a super jacked 24-year-old semi-professional boxer of Italian descent. He spent the better part of an hour shouting "Jab, jab, cross, uppercut, rotate under reset!" All the while my brain, which is just trying to figure out this choreography is saying " Right, shimmy, plie', chasse', second position". And by the time I figure out this 8-count he's moved on to something else. 

 Marc shouts for us to get our knees higher, hang on to that 90 second plank, get in that bag and hit it like it's trying to kill us. He tells us to fully straighten our arms on every jab and cross punch. - my ulna will shatter if I do this. I'm pretty sure I already pulled my trap muscle and I don't even know where my trap muscle is. He tells us to lift that bag right up off the floor and keep it there for 30 seconds. The bag weighs considerably more than a decaf-turtle mocha, which is the only thing I've been hoisting since mid-April.

This is brutal - torturous. I look around and every single person in the room is swinging their arms like a rugged, sinewy, ferral cat. They are battling for survival. Even Butch, who is the only possible prospect close to my age, is pummeling this 80 pound bag. Mine is swinging back and forth like we're in that square dance unit in PE. I'm just trying to do-si-do around this thing and not get knocked out by my own damn incompetence. 

Then the piece de resistance - I start to cry. 

Lord love me. 

I'm not crying because it's hard. I mean I should be crying for that reason, but I'm really crying because I know why I am here. 

I know that the only reason I'm battling this bag of sand is because I am trying to live. I'm trying to do what Rico couldn't do. I'm trying to do all of the things in all of the world, and I hate that he can't. This gives me fuel to hit and jab, but I wouldn't exactly call this my Rocky moment - I probably get three hits in, before I try to wipe the tears away and end up getting hit in the face by my own glove when the bag swings back at me. 

So now, not only am I the oldest person in the room, but I'm also sobbing, pummeling my own face and  breathing like a racehorse who really should be put down strictly as an act of mercy. 

Then blessedly, the bell rings - which means we only have 15 minutes of core strength to do. Marc hands me a medicine ball. The true act of kindness is that is an 8-pounder. It does not go unnoticed by me that this is the lightest ball they have. He gives Lindsay a 20-pound ball, and Butch a 25. He tells us to balance it on our feet. I'm like one of those circus bears laying on the ground, with this ball on my feet, just trying to juggle and not have it drop on my face. 25 sit-ups, 30 twist crunches, 2 minutes of side planks and God knows what else, and we are finally done. 

Marc says he's headed out for his workout - this was just his warm-up. He says this was an easy week. I will never know if that is true or not.