In the clearing stands a boxer

...and that fighter would be me.

In keeping with my long-standing chihuahua complex, I have decided to ditch 24 Hour Fitness (the stinky overcrowded mega-chain gym) for something tougher. I have officially taken up boxing.

I had had it with the jazzercise and the territorial middle-aged women who would glare at you for encroaching on their little plot of real estate on the gym floor. At 24 Hour Fitness, I'd inevitably get relegated to some unwanted corner of the aerobics floor, stuffed there with the fluffy lady in a headband who passes the entire class by casually raising her arms up and down, regardless of what the rest of the class is doing.

I craved the badass classes I used to love at the YMCA in Winston - classes like Pump and Boot Camp and Kickboxing, where the instructors would push you until you thought you would pass out. Now, THAT was fun.

Instead, I've morphed into a marshmallow person. I'm becoming the fluffy lady. Sometimes I get winded just talking on the phone. Something has to be done. Is this mid-life crisis? Isn't this too early? Isn't 32 the new 22? (You get the gist of what's motivating me.)

So, now I'm a member of the Boxing Club, where we get to don big puffy gloves and sling sweat as we beat the crap out of punching bags that look every bit as authentic as they actually are. I like to position myself to where I can glance into the mirror every now and then and give myself a good snarl. I make sure I'm not dancing around too much, I try to emulate the muscly guy beating the stink out of the bag next to me. I slink down into my shoulders, look mean, and throw the hardest blows I can manage. At least I'm doing that: I've boxed the skin off of my third knuckles on both hands.

I feel good.
I feel tough.
Just try and mess with me!