Not hard in the it’s-so-emotional-to-recollect-those-memories sort of way. More in the my-body-is-in-absolute-pain-and-it-hurts-to-even-raise-an-eyebrow way. But knowing me, it has to be done now or this thing is never going to get written.
The reason my body is sore all over is that I went to my first ever kickboxing class yesterday.
It all started with a Groupon deal. I was looking for some good workout options and when they featured a kickboxing class I figured, why not. I had taken one, rather fun class when I was in college at my college gym, with a girl who was paid 10 bucks an hour to jump around to the Top40s.
I should have realized this thing is way out of my league right away. Here's how it went down:
I open the door to the studio and walk into the perimeter of a boxing ring. Two very burly men are duking it out. Oblivious that I am to such obvious red flags, I head to the front desk and sign up.
The class has the usual suspects. The first-timers (like me). The people who’ve been gymming for a while and looking for the next challenge. A gorgeously lithe, blonde woman fits that bill. And then there’s the man who shall henceforth be called the Russian Tank. He looks Eastern-European, and is all raging hormones; stretching, shuffling around on the mat and shadow boxing the air before the class has even started.
I hate that fucker.
There’s also a young boy there. He looks..twelve. To be quite honest, I’m not even sure if he’s a boy or girl, that’s how young he/she (it?) is. What kids who haven’t even hit puberty yet, are doing in a gym is beyond me. I want to grab him by the shoulders and say, “ You fool! Why are you here? Go and play outside, and pretend you have cooties while it’s still appropriate for you to do so.”
But I don’t even have the chance. The instructor comes bounding in and introduces himself. He’s slightly short and beefy to the max. I’m almost certain that if we peel back the skin on his biceps, there’d be porkskin footballs hidden in there.
He says, “All right guys! This is the WORK class, and we’re going to REALLY work it out today.” He hands us all resistance bands. As we squat into our start positions, I realize I haven’t taken a dump today. And I’m really feeling the pressure now. This is troubling, but I’m fairly confident I can overcome the discomfort and manage.
We start with a warm-up. Quick punches, jumping jacks, squats, lunges, stuff to get our heart rates up. A timer on the wall tracks how many minutes we are into the workout. By the time we get to lunges, I am panting. My heart rate is definitely up. I look at the timer and it says 4:00. Fuck.
Next come the weights and kettlebells. Hi, my name is Amruta and I’ve never lifted a kettlebell in my life. I pick it up and I know I’m in trouble. But you don’t have time to dwell in this class. The instructor explains the exercise, and we’re off. First slow, then double time. I pray to some Amazon goddess for strength, but it doesn’t come.
I’m dying. My mouth is full of saliva, perhaps even blood. I really wonder why gyms are never fitted with spittoons. I can’t be the only one frothing at the mouth. Then again, looking around, I just might be.
By the time we get to weights, only sheer brainpower is driving the jelly that is my body. I might literally crap my pants any second, but I'm past caring now. The weights are color-coded – blue, green, yellow, orange, red – blue being the heaviest. The instructor tells the guys to pick up the blue dumb bells, green for the women.
I pick up the green weight. At least, I try. There is no way I can lift this thing over my head without dropping it and crushing my skull. So I ignore the judging looks and go for the lighter, orange ones. The instructor shouts at me, “Really? You can’t even do Yellow?” Shut up guy, I want to be alive tomorrow.
You’ll have to ask the others in my class what happened next. I basically went through a series of blackouts, and whenever I came to, I’d hear the instructor say, “Go! Go! Go!” pretty much non-stop. Even the orange lightweights were kicking my butt. The one thing I do remember is that even Russian Tank couldn’t take it anymore and left to find a bathroom. He looked like he was about to puke. Sissy.
When my heart is about to give up on me, the class is finally over. I can hear the blood throbbing through my temples. Even as we are stretching, I can feel my gluteus maximus contracting to some minimus size. I realize with horror, that I’m sore even before the class is over. It’s worse by the time I’m on the train home. I almost can’t get up when my stop arrives. My body feels like a BODIES exhibition, where every small movement is ten times more profoundly amazing. I’m keenly aware of every sore muscle but can’t curse because even that requires more effort than I can muster.
Why do people put themselves through this torture? And then don’t tell anyone else about how painful it truly is? I’m not sure. But I’m going back tomorrow, because dammit I had to pay for 8 classes upfront. And only crazy people waste money. Also, the rich. Though I guess that's one and same thing these days.
The class has the usual suspects. The first-timers (like me). The people who’ve been gymming for a while and looking for the next challenge. A gorgeously lithe, blonde woman fits that bill. And then there’s the man who shall henceforth be called the Russian Tank. He looks Eastern-European, and is all raging hormones; stretching, shuffling around on the mat and shadow boxing the air before the class has even started.
I hate that fucker.
There’s also a young boy there. He looks..twelve. To be quite honest, I’m not even sure if he’s a boy or girl, that’s how young he/she (it?) is. What kids who haven’t even hit puberty yet, are doing in a gym is beyond me. I want to grab him by the shoulders and say, “ You fool! Why are you here? Go and play outside, and pretend you have cooties while it’s still appropriate for you to do so.”
But I don’t even have the chance. The instructor comes bounding in and introduces himself. He’s slightly short and beefy to the max. I’m almost certain that if we peel back the skin on his biceps, there’d be porkskin footballs hidden in there.
He says, “All right guys! This is the WORK class, and we’re going to REALLY work it out today.” He hands us all resistance bands. As we squat into our start positions, I realize I haven’t taken a dump today. And I’m really feeling the pressure now. This is troubling, but I’m fairly confident I can overcome the discomfort and manage.
We start with a warm-up. Quick punches, jumping jacks, squats, lunges, stuff to get our heart rates up. A timer on the wall tracks how many minutes we are into the workout. By the time we get to lunges, I am panting. My heart rate is definitely up. I look at the timer and it says 4:00. Fuck.
Next come the weights and kettlebells. Hi, my name is Amruta and I’ve never lifted a kettlebell in my life. I pick it up and I know I’m in trouble. But you don’t have time to dwell in this class. The instructor explains the exercise, and we’re off. First slow, then double time. I pray to some Amazon goddess for strength, but it doesn’t come.
I’m dying. My mouth is full of saliva, perhaps even blood. I really wonder why gyms are never fitted with spittoons. I can’t be the only one frothing at the mouth. Then again, looking around, I just might be.
By the time we get to weights, only sheer brainpower is driving the jelly that is my body. I might literally crap my pants any second, but I'm past caring now. The weights are color-coded – blue, green, yellow, orange, red – blue being the heaviest. The instructor tells the guys to pick up the blue dumb bells, green for the women.
I pick up the green weight. At least, I try. There is no way I can lift this thing over my head without dropping it and crushing my skull. So I ignore the judging looks and go for the lighter, orange ones. The instructor shouts at me, “Really? You can’t even do Yellow?” Shut up guy, I want to be alive tomorrow.
You’ll have to ask the others in my class what happened next. I basically went through a series of blackouts, and whenever I came to, I’d hear the instructor say, “Go! Go! Go!” pretty much non-stop. Even the orange lightweights were kicking my butt. The one thing I do remember is that even Russian Tank couldn’t take it anymore and left to find a bathroom. He looked like he was about to puke. Sissy.
When my heart is about to give up on me, the class is finally over. I can hear the blood throbbing through my temples. Even as we are stretching, I can feel my gluteus maximus contracting to some minimus size. I realize with horror, that I’m sore even before the class is over. It’s worse by the time I’m on the train home. I almost can’t get up when my stop arrives. My body feels like a BODIES exhibition, where every small movement is ten times more profoundly amazing. I’m keenly aware of every sore muscle but can’t curse because even that requires more effort than I can muster.
Why do people put themselves through this torture? And then don’t tell anyone else about how painful it truly is? I’m not sure. But I’m going back tomorrow, because dammit I had to pay for 8 classes upfront. And only crazy people waste money. Also, the rich. Though I guess that's one and same thing these days.
