For the first time in over a year, I put on my boxing gloves and gave my punching bag a good beating. Never realized till now how much I miss beating the crap out of something.
I don't even remember why I started boxing. I just know that after one session in the ring, I shelled out money for my 12 oz gloves, wraps, and a membership at Red Corner. Then for some reason, I transferred to The Spa at RCBC Plaza (now Fitness First Plus), got into the kickboxing/street defense class--and discovered I had a violent streak.
I can't describe how good it feels to hit something. When I hear the thwack of my gloves on the pad or bag, when I feel the dull pain on my knuckles and the jarring force travel down my arm, when I feel whatever I'm hitting give a little--it's sheer release. Exhilirating.
Then there's the mental workout I get. I have to react quickly. I have to calculate my next move. I have to duck. This part, admittedly, needs more work. I have always been on the slow reflex side, since my tendency is to analyze and break down the situation before I do anything (which is why, I think, I don't make an excellent driver).
Three minutes of actual sparring is more exhausting than three minutes of padding because thinking of your strategy--to score without getting knocked out--burns hundreds of calories (disclaimer: this is my personal theory only). Then you have to act out your strategy. Or at least attempt to.
Fear also burns calories. Everytime I go spar with someone, I'm scared of getting hit. Sure we have body armor and gloves. And we aren't allowed to hit above the neck. But what happens if you duck the wrong way? This happened to a good friend of mine--he bobbed right into my jab. Broke his nose. I feel guilty about that; though in an evil sort of way, it felt good too, the realization that I had the power to do such damage.
Not that I come out unscathed. I know what it feels like to have my breath knocked out of me, thanks to a jab-straight to my chest and a front kick to my stomach. I've had roundhouse kicks to my un-armored sides. I have flown across the room, wiping the floor with my butt. I have also walked around with shoeprint bruises on my arms and legs.
I guess that's one reason I enjoy contact kickboxing. I'm a wuss when it comes to pain. So sparring lets me face my fear head on. You feel the pain, but you shake it off and fight on. To sort of steal a line from Kenny Rogers, there'll be time enough for cryin' when the match is done.
Sometimes I think, when the actual need for punching someone comes up (no, this does not apply to The Hubby; I think it's in our marriage contract somewhere--he made sure), will I be able to do it? Will I be able to remember the right combinations? Or will I freeze? Though I can't imagine being in that situation, I hope I kick ass like Charlie's Angels, Sydney of Alias, Lara Croft and Mrs. Smith. And I want to look as good too.
Today, after I did my drills, practised some combinations, and drove The Boo crazy with the punch bag (he kept running around me, looking for the enemy), I felt so good. I know I'll be in pain tomorrow, but the exhiliration is back.
Anyone want to start a kickboxing class with me here in Merville?