Kickboxing class kicked off (haha) last night. I was a bit worried. I’ve only gone to group classes a couple of times in my life since I prefer to attempt such athletic feats solo. I’ve done Tae Bo and I have a kickboxing video that I’ve worked with for a few weeks off and on. But one never knows just how fit and coordinated they are until those skills are put on display in an elementary school gym. It wasn’t bad, though. Not really as tough as I thought it would be, that’s for sure. And I had Sarah and Patti along for company.
The gym itself brought back memories. Wow. I haven’t been in a school gym since, well…since I was in school. In kindergarten, we were playing Duck, Duck, Goose when I slipped and fell on the gym floor and broke my arm. In third grade, during a Brownie meeting, my very short self futilely shot basketballs toward the net for minutes on end, never coming close. (Which may explain my adult aversion to shooting hoops.)
Then there was junior high where we were all so mature that massive giggling broke out when a classmate farted during sit-ups. And the all-embarrassing process of choosing teams for basketball and such, where I usually ended up in the bottom half of the group. (Except in volleyball, where I was prized for my serve.) My attraction to gym class ended in high school when we were forced to do chin hangs from the bar and I couldn’t last one second. My shyness kept me from pursuing sports and gradually led me to hate being in the gym at all.
So it was pretty trippy to be jabbing, crossing, and sidekicking in a smallish gymnasium frequented by 8-year-olds. Moreso when she instructed us to run laps between a couple of the combinations. And there we were doing crunches during the cool-down period. I had to smile at the thought of my seventh-grade self trying to stifle giggles and joining everyone else in trying to ensure that I wasn’t the one fingered for the farting. Oh, to be young again!