The Power of Prayer. It works! April 26, 2010, I wrote a blog, " Spanx or Not To Spanx." It refers to a mixed martial arts class that was kicking my butt. Instead of quitting, I prayed for the whole class to implode. (Hey, I never professed to be a nice person.) Guess what? Three months later, the studio lost their lease. It took them two years to find another space. Recently, I ran into a former student and teacher. I took these sightings as a sign. I've joined again.
". . . Oh sheeeiiiitttt," are the words that come to my lips after five minutes into the class. Literally. Three hundred seconds elapse when regrets start to erupt from my pounding heart. Another 10 minutes crawl by and I'm on my 50th boxing combination. "Jab, jab, cross, hook to the ribs, hook to the head, roundhouse left, roundhouse right." I look pleadingly at my 70 pound leather punching dummy. "Please, punch me out," I whisper. I swear I hear him say, "Who's the dummy now, Bitch?"
"I know you're a little winded," bellows the instructor. "So lay down with your head an arms-length away from the medicine ball I positioned behind you." All I comprehend is, "lay down." The next instructions sound like Charlie Brown's teacher. "Blah, blah . . blah. Blah, 15 crunches, blah." My fellow captors respond. They are lifting this ten pound ball into the air, as they simultaneously bring their feet up toward the ball to meet high above the belly. After I do three of these torturous maneuvers, I steal a look at the instructor. She has transformed into Medusa. Her beautiful hair extensions have become serpents. The precious "Michael Strahan" gap between her teeth now appear wide enough to suck me through, like a cobra ingesting its prey. She appears preoccupied arranging the boxing gloves on the hooks, so I attempt to lessen my load. I shove the ball away with my remaining strength. It travels four inches.
"Tam-A-Lam-A-Ding-Dong, what are you doing?" Oh yeah, that was her nick name for me back in 2010.
"I thought I saw a spider. So I was killing it."
"By rolling the medicine ball over it? You can stay afterwards to wipe down all the balls. Put your balls away and grab a jump rope."
I eye the jump rope and the metal pipes above. This escape route seems a little severe, but still . . .
"Jump til I say stop."
I tentatively raise my hand to forestall the activity by a few seconds. "What if my heart stops before you say stop?"
"No need for a class clown. Let's jump."
Last time I checked Webster's, that word means "let us,"as in "let us all jump." Funny, though, she just stands there with her ridged abs and concrete biceps determining if we are sweating enough. On second thought, I don't want to witness her jumping. I jump quickly. I jump slowly. I skip while singing playground songs. Occasionally, I smack the rope hard against my legs so I have to start again. I pause, rub my stinging shins, tangle myself in the rope, anything to stall and catch my breath.
"Ropes away. Do your push-ups, then stretch."
I splay out on the mat like the coyote after the road runner tricked him into falling down the deep ravine while being hit by TNT.
Despite the sweat in my eyes, I see the light. Not the fluorescent light above me, but the "other" light. Not the "go into the light" light, but the "I have an epiphany" light.
I no longer pray for the demise of my class. I pray for the stamina to survive one more.
Personal Growth 101: A+
