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Jan 30, 2013

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.
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