Watch Me Work

I have always been horrified at the Xtreme Fitness Center; a gym on the corner of Eagle Rock and Colorado boulevards with floor to ceiling plate-glass windows. Every evening able-bodied individuals roll across blue mats and throw punches at rows of red dangling bags while bored drivers waiting at the stoplight look them idly up and down. There is nothing that sounds less enjoyable to me than the thought of being eyed by strangers in a sweaty, heaving state. I don't even like to watch myself exercising in the mirror.

Still, somehow I ended up there last night for a kick boxing class with my overzealous house mates. I have never been much of a boxer. By which I mean that I didn't really know how. But I was pleasantly surprised by the amount of satisfaction I got from kicking the bejesus out of a swinging bag. Not to mention the whole increased heart rate, aerobic activity side of things.

It turns out I've been suffering from a lot of pent-up aggression towards others. This became apparent when I realized I was picturing an ex-boyfriend's grinning face on the bag midway through the session. At the end of the class, I felt so thoroughly cleansed of negative emotions that I opted to sign up for regular kickboxing lesson. Therapy without the social stigma of going to speak with a professional. Albeit therapy sessions don't usually come with such a captive audience.