Kick Boxing

I have this love hate relationship with my kick boxing class. I had all of the right intentions when I joined. I wanted to look like the fit, tone, spunky instructors. The gym manager schmoozed me and made all sorts of promises about how kickboxing will get me in the best shape of my life and that it is a great stress reliever and is, "a ton of fun." Nevermind the gruelling, sweaty, high impact work out. I am woman. I've trained for a few half marathons (and not very well, I might add) so how bad can it be?

Then came the drill sergeant instructors who issue commands and combinations all the while not actually doing them themselves. I don't want to have to think when I'm at the gym. Give me good repetitive cardio and I'm happy.

I pretty much hate it. All of it. But problem is I shelled out a lot of cash for a year membership and darn it, I'm gonna get my money's worth even if I have to suffer. Suffer in silence. Because I cannot get my money back. I've tried. And failed.

I hate that the owners of the gym seem to be opposed to running the air conditioner. I'm thinking they think that opening the windows and leaving the doors ajar is sufficient. I'm here to tell you. IT IS NOT. The fans are useless and cram in 15 sweaty bodies kicking and punching bags and a dozen or so crazies on the mats doing mixed martial arts (and let me tell you, I don't particularly enjoy watching men pretzeled on top of each other trying to get out of holds...).

I hate that when the sweat runs down my face and starts to burn my eyes, I can't wipe it off because I am handicapped by the massive gloves on my hands.

I hate that my "upper body dimensions" make it next to impossible to participate in the jostling of jumping jacks and the "jump to the sky and then hit the floor" exercises.

I hate that my "lower body dimensions" make it rather difficult to do the mountain climber and pushup combos with much pizazz. (And I REALLY HATE the view I have of my saddle bags that I am forced to look at while performing the torture.

I hate that my classmate is this ginormous man with a sumo wrestler tummy and tattoos about fighting and pain on his forearms and shins (no joke) hits his bag with such force that it keeps slamming into me. He, of course, can't hear me ask him to, "scootch over just a teensy bit please," because he is busy compromising his hearing with his own blaring music piped in through ear phones. Which I don't quite understand because the music in the gym is so loud, you can't possibly hear your own music. Who does he think he is Michael Phelps?

Which brings me to my next point...

I HATE the music. Tonight's play list included some song about, "Do it to me baby fast and then slow," and "You're a womanizer..." and something about shooting and killing and the pop-pop-pop of 'da gun. What's so wrong about a little, C and C Music Company, "Gonna' make you sweat!"

I hate the little cliques of chicks with their augmentations and enhancements and designer workout garb. They come to class in full make up. I'm talking full face. And I don't get it. Don't they sweat it all off? Just who are they trying to impress? Tonight I inadvertently "stole" Missy girls bag and she said, "You must not have seen my (hot) pink gloves and towel." Hence me having to stand next to sumo fatty tonight.

So why do I do it?

I LOVE the way I feel when I MAKE it through a class. I'm famished and thirsty and sweaty and invigorated. So that will keep me coming back. But you're crazy if you think I'll be renewing my membership. I think not. Give me a nice jaunt over the river and through the woods in solitude. That's more my speed!