Jab, cross, kick
The instructor leading me through the orientation seems to be almost deranged with endorphins. He tells me his story – how he used to be 40 lbs overweight and sported a huge mohawk - how this place has changed his life. (I hope they don’t make me change my hair style, I smirk to myself.) I was a little bit wary at first. The instructor who leads most of the classes is referred to as Sensei Andrew and is apparently the youngest fourth degree black belt in North America. Basically he could roundhouse kick your face off. Fantastic.
Sensei is a Japanese word for teacher but it sounds a little…well, frankly, cultish – what with the uniforms (t-shirts and black pants) and the bowing before going onto the mat. I was more than wary. I smiled as he showed me around the studio and nodded while he told me the underlying principles of the practice. It’s not like I thought it was dumb – not at all – I just felt the way a little kid does when his parents make him join the marching band and he doesn’t know all the moves and the uniforms look a little stupid to him and yes, he’s always wanted to play an instrument but does it really have to be this outrageously flamboyant?
Then I went through the class. Going through the basic combinations – jab, cross, duck, cross and again, and again – seemed simple enough. It felt good, hitting the air and then hitting the bag, focusing all my energy on releasing all of this crap out of me. Then the push-ups. And the crunches. And the bicycle. And more crunches are you fucking serious??? Don’t forget the jumping jacks, the knee things they did (no idea what they’re called) and did I mention push-ups? They like to do this thing where they shout out – TEN MORE! And you think – oh thank god, ten more, ok I can do this and then when they get to ten, they shout again – TEN MORE! and after the third time they do that, you realize it’s just a cruel, cruel joke and they have no intention of making you do ten more but hundreds more – and then you weep.
Needless to say, the class kicked my ass. I was shaking and sweating but….holy. shit. I felt awesome. I felt more energized and awake and happy than I have in…..I don’t even know when. And during the workout, though I felt pain (dear god the pain) and had to really argue with myself to keep going at times (me: he said ten more! legs: fuck off) I actually had fun. The music, the encouraging voices, the vibe of every punch, every kick – it was so much fun. When we were done, I sort of wanted to do more. Which then made me think I needed to go home and take about 4 or 5 of those little crazy pills the doctors give me.
The point is – yes, I’m hooked. I’m drinking the koolaid – I bought the gloves, the shirts, signed the 6 month contract. I committed to at least 2 classes a week but I’m hoping to go to 3 or 4. Every single person I talked to in the class had more or less the same story as I did. They hated the gym, paid the membership but rarely went and never consistently kept up a routine, and in turn, never saw results. Then they signed up for kickboxing and snap – something changed. One woman lost 30 lbs in four months just from coming a few times a week and cutting out fast food out of her diet. I have abs - ABS! she tells me as she oozes with the same deranged endorphins the instructor in the beginning did.
As corny as this sounds (and as much as my arms hurt just typing these paragraphs…oww), I am proud of myself for seeking out something different. It wasn’t just the extra weight I felt like I was putting on or the fact that my always fairly flat stomach is definitely NOT at all anymore (ah to be 16 again) – it was the motivation to do something. To get up and move. To protect my bones and my heart and my muscles by keeping them going and maintaining a healthy life. I hope this time, it clicks for me.
