Every
Monday for the past month I have been participating in the "Pink
Dragons" class at Robby's Taekwondo studio. I had been quite content
sitting in the spectator area just relaxing and watching for an hour
every evening. The hour of being still and totally disconnecting from
all technology has become a bit of a refuge for me. The prospect of
abandoning my comfortable (and quiet) perch to sweat was not appealing,
but I wasn't quite sure how to say no politely when I was repeatedly
invited. (Have I mentioned I'm really bad at saying no?)
To my surprise, I am actually enjoying the class. Touted as a self-defense course for women, it is primarily boxing. I suspect that the instructors are concerned about bringing the kicking elements into the class for fear of my leg flying off. (Robby, in an attempt to be jovial, warned them to be careful of flying legs when I'm working out. He was kidding of course, but I'm fairly certain that his joke was lost on the instructors.)
At this point I really don't care if I ever kick anything in the class. I discovered that I have a true affinity for hitting things. I have been finding the class extremely cathartic. Typically not violent, my mind wanders to imagine coworkers, annoying friends and frustrating family members while I pound the punching bag. It turns out that I've been harboring a lot of ill-will and personal frustrations. It is liberating to channel all of the annoyances into a healthy release.
As luck would have it, Robby rescued a punching bag from the trash of my Mom's neighbor last month. At first I was annoyed with the imposing and bulky apparatus, but now I'm glad to have it. I'm going to try to convince Scott to help me hang it in the basement. If I get into the habit of beating out my frustrations I think I'll be emotionally healthier and physically buff. Talk about a win-win!
To my surprise, I am actually enjoying the class. Touted as a self-defense course for women, it is primarily boxing. I suspect that the instructors are concerned about bringing the kicking elements into the class for fear of my leg flying off. (Robby, in an attempt to be jovial, warned them to be careful of flying legs when I'm working out. He was kidding of course, but I'm fairly certain that his joke was lost on the instructors.)
At this point I really don't care if I ever kick anything in the class. I discovered that I have a true affinity for hitting things. I have been finding the class extremely cathartic. Typically not violent, my mind wanders to imagine coworkers, annoying friends and frustrating family members while I pound the punching bag. It turns out that I've been harboring a lot of ill-will and personal frustrations. It is liberating to channel all of the annoyances into a healthy release.
As luck would have it, Robby rescued a punching bag from the trash of my Mom's neighbor last month. At first I was annoyed with the imposing and bulky apparatus, but now I'm glad to have it. I'm going to try to convince Scott to help me hang it in the basement. If I get into the habit of beating out my frustrations I think I'll be emotionally healthier and physically buff. Talk about a win-win!
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