I have recently taken up a cardio kickboxing class at my gym on Thursday nights. It’s a great workout, of course, but it’s also extremely satisfying on a psychological level. I release a lot of pent up aggression leveling right hooks and roundhouse kicks at imaginary enemies that tend to resemble psychotic ex-bosses, rude baristas and Congress.
When I kickbox, I am light on my feet. I punch and pivot and kick with the muscular grace of an Alvin Ailey ballerina. I float like a butterfly and sting like a bee. For about 60 seconds.
For the remaining 59 minutes I am a sweaty, tomato-faced creature heaving my limbs this way and that, trying to keep my balance and lift my legs more than 6 inches off the ground. The exercise studio where the class is held is wall-to-wall mirrors. It is not a time to be concerned with dignity, let me tell you.
Last night there was a woman in front of me in class who moved with grace and ease, barely breaking a sweat. She was tall and long limbed and slender and strong. She inspired me to move closer to the mirror, so I could stop watching her and start obsessing about all the places on my body that jiggled when I jabbed.
I took a sadistic little trip down memory lane. First stop was my twenties, when I ate and drank as much as I pleased and slid into size 4 clothing without a hitch. Second stop was my early 30’s, when, despite vastly improved eating and drinking habits, my body slowly changed into a curvier, rounder version of itself. Admittedly, in some ways this was awesome – I had cleavage! But in other ways it was a stone cold bummer. I pay in sweat for every calorie I indulge in, and there are all these jiggly bits that seem to be settling in for life. And I haven’t even had kids yet…
After kickboxing was over, I staggered to the locker room and noticed the athletic beauty from class sitting on a bench nearby. She had changed into street clothes and was examining her skin in a hand mirror, poking it and prodding it and pulling it this way and that, morosely slathering on make-up. Inside my head, all I could do was crack up laughing. Do we have problems, or what?
Walking to the shower I saw that the locker room was full of lovely women of all shapes and sizes, harshly scrutinizing some small aspect of their appearance. A demure Japanese girl, beautiful as a porcelain doll, was frowning at her butt. A tall, tattooed hippie chick was, with admirable audacity, blow drying her hair topless right near the door. She sighed as she tugged at her locks with a brush. And then of course, there was yours truly- a healthy 37-year-old woman with a nice rack, good skin and just a few easy-to-yank strands of gray in her hair, who just spent 30 minutes focusing on her belly fat while the rest of her conquered a strenuous workout.
As I showered my body with water it came to me that I should also shower it with appreciation. I am strong, I have my health, I carry myself effortlessly from place to place. Someday, god willing, I will be old, and I imagine I will look back at this woman in the locker room, with all her painless vigor and flexibility, and roll my eyes at what an ungrateful little pup she was, as I rub my arthritic knuckles and wheel my chair over to the window.
Next Thursday, I have a new invisible enemy to fight. You think my legs are too short? Jab! My stomach is too fat, you say? Roundhouse kick! You think I am not a beautiful, wonderful, bad ass babe? TKO, motherfucker!