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| Ewing Galloway at art.com |
And a fever was born.
You see, I’ve been working out like a crazy person over the last year and a half and I dialed up the intensity to 7 days a week at the beginning of March. AND NOW I’ve hit a weight plateau! Give or take 5 pounds which I attribute to my sugar and Mexican food addiction. Fajitas and Honey Nut Chex are the only thing keeping me from rock hard abs y’all.
After doing some online research I put a phone call in to good ole Bruce from Bruce’s KO Boxing Gym and set up my first private boxing lesson for this morning. If anything can help get my 24% body fat below 20%, sweating my ass off smackin’ stuff around sounds promising.
When I called yesterday Bruce asked me, “Why you so excited? You got yourself a fight coming up?”
“No sir,” I answered. “I’m just tired of being told that I hit like a girl.”
After laughing he replied, “All right girl. I’ll see you tomorrow. Wear shorts. It’ll be hot.”
So I met Bruce at his gym this morning before he went off to work at his second company, Tri-Recycling. Imagine! A boxing environmentalist.
Bruce, a shorter, fit, bald man was wearing khakis and steel-toed boots and I was in shorts and sneakers rocking majorly scary hair. After wrapping my hands we started in the ring. I’ve got one word for standing in a boxing ring.
AWESOME.
Actually, I would like to say four words.
Totally Mother EFFING AWESOME.
After I performed my scariest Rocky impersonation and bounced around with my gloves held high over my head and then preened in the mirrors, we got started. Bruce is a stickler for form and technique so he made me repeat my jabs 8,000 times only correcting me for about 3 million unperceivable flaws. He taught me about reach, staying balanced over your feet and angling your body so you don’t take a punch flat to the sternum.
I have to confess, for someone with boundary issues like myself (As in: This is my personal space. Draw imaginary box. Please step the F Bomb back.) boxing is very uncomfortably an intimate sport. Bruce was all up IN my grill. AND he kept smacking me. Not hard or anything, just like a gentle slap to the shoulder or leg or elbow to remind me keep my elbows up or my ribs protected. Just a little antagonizing. No malice. He saved the malice for the boxing bag.
When Bruce got tired of watching me struggle with my foot work we climbed out of the ring and went over to the punching bags. I, unfortunately, made eye contact with the “spit tube” on my way out of the ring. Needless to say my amor for said ring was greatly diminished after discovering that little treasure.
“Oh Jeebus, Bruce! Is that a PUKE FUNNEL!?” I squeaked after very nearly touching it.
“Naw, girl. That’s a spit tube. Snot too. Maybe a little blood, but mostly spit. Those out there,” He said pointing to the trees in the parking lot. “Those are puke trees. We try real hard not to puke in my gym.”
EW.
After that revelation every spot on the mirror, smell or discoloration had me highly suspect. My skin was sort of crawly. I fought down my squeamishness by imaging my return to class wearing holsters for my own personal sized bottle of bleach.
Working on the bag I discovered my jabs are good, I suck at feinting, my right foot belongs in the ‘special needs’ class, I need to practice more slow dancing (wha?) and my stamina needs work. We punch for 1 minute intervals and rest for 10 seconds before punching again. Whew-ey! Bruce uses playground taunts to inspire his champions. He asked me if I shouldn’t just go home and get a manicure instead of boxing RIGHT before I beat the shiz out of him. Just kidding. He did call me prissy pants (A LOT) and he totally told me my head looked like a piñata, but it was all in good fun. He says it with a lot of love in his eyes.
After about an hour and 3 liters of sweat had dripped from my knee caps, we finished with core and conditioning. I immediately signed up for a 6 week membership and raced home to order my purple hand wraps. That’s purple Mexican style hand wraps y’all. Just in case you were wondering ;) Now lets just hope this lasts longer than the belly dancing...
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