F*** it, Dude, Let's Go Kickboxing

Back in the winter of our discontent, NayNay and I bought a Groupon that seemed tailor made to knock us out of our collective malaise and general laziness: kickboxing.

For my own part, I had visions of myself acquiring the skills to go join a fictional crime-fighting action spy team based in Miami. I've already got my own yogurt.

Of course, it took us until the spring of our discontent to get organized enough to get in the car and actually show up for a class.

And so it has been for the last three weeks, which is, incidentally, how long it's been since I've been able to walk, or stand, or sit, or lie down, normally. I'm pretty sure that's not a coincidence.

So, yeah, it hurts. It hurts a lot. I've historically been a lousy athlete, because I don't like doing stuff that hurts.

That and I'm kind of a total spaz.

So the hardest part of kickboxing isn't the cardio and calisthenics that make my arms and legs feel slightly less substantial than cooked pasta. It's not the awkwardness of finding your head on the floor between a stranger's feet on the odd Saturday morning. It's remembering the difference between right and left.

Lucky for me, my dojo-- yes, it's a dojo-- has sensei (is that also the plural) who are patient and encouraging with the beginner/ spaz. This makes them superior to every coach or gym teacher I ever had.

Plus, it's really fun to get to hit stuff. Really, really fun.

Of course, perhaps the Suz is right when she speculates that teaching me to fight can't possibly end well. By that, I presume she means I can't one day have a cape: