Hook right, jab left

I love exercise.

I love how it feels to

sweat

and grunt

and work hard.

The burning breathlessness

that comes at the end of a run

is my very favorite part.

I haven't engaged in group exercise since college

or maybe at the gym of my pre-Tyler years.

It's been a long time.

I'm insecure,

mostly because I'm a klutz

and don't pick up on rhythmic moves quickly.

Last night I joined my Beehives at

Farrell's Extreme Bodyshaping

for a kick-boxing class.

I had a headache and a stomachache and was

so, so, so tired.

But I stepped up with my girls and went to the mat.

We did some jab-cross-jab moves

in the air,

and I liked that.

But then the instructors

busted out the bags.

I put on a pair of gloves

and punched that bag with all I had.

It felt

GREAT.

Once I found a rhythm,

I felt catharsis

with every punch.

Frustration

and pain

and disappointment

and so many emotions

flowed through my arm and into that bag.

I punched and kicked

the stupid lab

and my medical appointments

and the prescriptions I hate

and my draining bank account

and my ridiculous mental status

and my messy house

and my nasty bathrooms

and Family Home Chaos

and the dinner hour

and my mistakes and shortcomings

and the bridges I've burned

because I'm a mess.

I grunted and I yelled and I kicked and I punched.

No one got hurt

and I healed.

By the end of the hour

my head was clear

and my heart wasn't quite so heavy.

I could breathe again.

The moral of the story:

Get a punching bag.

Oh, wait.

I have one!

I also have pink boxing gloves,

and they are calling my name.

The treadmill has a rival.

Watch out.