When one of my security/floor guys at work started to train for his upcoming MMA fight, it occured to me that maybe HE could make me into a lean-mean-fighting machine. (i really just wanted the lean and mean part, but i won’t object to being made into fighting machine.) Much to the objection of everyone we worked with, we got started (they said i was mean enough without fighting skills.) The first session, I got light-headed about 5 times. The second sesson, I threw up. The third sesson, my arms couldn’t hold up the 14 oz boxing gloves that Andy had strapped on my. Every week, I went, looking foolish as my limp arms tried desperately to support the hulk-like gloves while the attendees of the group class stared as Andy kept reminding me to breath (i always forget.)

Miracles or miracles, by the 5 or 6th time, i was starting to feel better. i was getting through my sessions without wanting to faint. i was able to do my crunches without tears. i got the rhythm of the speed bag down (cue ’eye of the tiger’ please!) i was even able to hold up my arms without them feeling like they were going to be burned off at the bicep. i was getting…good!

Until last week. Apparently all those hitting and kicking drills were suppose to amount to something? like actually attacking people! Andy made me punch him in the face. which i refused until i went to throw a punch and he delibertly didn’t block it. i flinched. then HE punched ME. and my contact fell out. and like the fat nerd in gym glass, i was sent to the ground, blind and looking for my eyesight.

Today, Andy had the brilliant idea that since i was progressing fairly well, that he would up the time on all the repetition work we were doing. i know 2 minutes doesn’t sound like much, but try punch a giant sand bag for 2 minutes straight with 14oz gloves on. my arms BURNED like pompei upon the erruption of mt. versuvius. Then he upped the reps on the sit-ups. BURN, i tell you BURN.

and as we were doing all the repetitions, Andy would LIE about how much time was left to keep me motivated. “10 seconds left” he’d say. and i’d do like 15 more reps wondering why 10 second seems so long. then he’s say, “i lied, NOW there’s 10 seconds left.” my muscles felt betrayed.

the moral of this story is that if you’re looking for me in the next three days, i’ll be stationary. on my couch with my dog wondering if i’ve died because i haven’t moved. i’m in pain. everything hurts. sure, it’s a good i’m-gonna-look-great-in-skinny-jeans pain. but it’s still pain. i’m not giving this one up anytime soon though, the possibility of being able to be made into a fighter is way too enticing. plus, there’s the whole skinny jean thing. (we can’t all be born thin limbed, like michelle! damn you!) so for the forseeable future, i’ll just be here, in pain, sulking in my vanity.