In which I defend my love of hitting things.

I'm not sure what it is I'm going through, or where it may stop. Last night, I signed up for six months of kickboxing classes, mere hours after going for a run over my lunch hour at work.

The run was painful, as I've got some sort of over-use injury going on with my left leg and I'm running along like Terry Fox only without any of the will, heroism, insurmountable odds or heart-rending back story. I just mean I'm running in a hopping and dragging way that's sure to keep the ice-pack industry in business.

Then I worked the afternoon and went to kickboxing class, feeling very athletic indeed. I had attended my first class two nights previously, at the invite of a casual work acquaintance.

I had run that day too, and called the woman who invited me to kickboxing to let her know I wouldn't be meeting her, but thank you for the offer and suggestion, but I was very tired. This is how the conversation went:

Bambi - Hi Maria - thanks for inviting me to go with, but I'm not going to make it.

Maria - Why? You dead?

It should be noted that Maria has a wonderful Spanish accent that when used correctly, makes people afraid of her. And by people, I mean me.

Bambi - Not really dead per se...

Maria - Oh good! I was afraid for a minute. See you at 5:30!

Bambi - Umm...no...I mean...

Maria - You not dead?

Bambi - No. Not dead.

Maria - 5:30 then! Bye!

I'm still unsure how it came to be that my only way out of kickboxing was clinical death, but I went and thought the worse that could happen was...well...clinical death.

But that's not what happened. First, I developed an instant girl-crush on the owner/operator of this particular women's only kick-boxing studio. Yes, she's a beautiful girl, and yes her body is so slamming I'm not even convinced we're the same species when standing next to one another in the mirror but more than that...this woman is powerful. I want to be her.

She taped up my hands and warned me that for the next few days they were going to shake, but I should still be able to wash my hair. I had never experienced a work-out that could put my personal hygiene rituals at risk, so I was alarmed.

She asked me about injuries, and I thought it was going to be her turn to be alarmed. Knee. Back. Left leg. Pelvis. I've given the run-down before for other work-out programs started and stopped and was expecting the same reaction - she'd make note of it on some kind of legal contract saying I couldn't sue her if I died and we would get on with things.

Instead, she looked me up and down, pointed to every spot I'd just mentioned and asked what happened. She wasn't alarmed at all, but I was starting to panic as she made her way upward.

No other fitness trainer had ever asked me, and I had no answer prepared for when she asked me what happened to crack my pelvis. And so I told her the truth. She looked at me for a good long time - so long it made me nervous. Then she said, let's go hit something. And so we did.

She knows how to hit, and how to teach other women how to hit like men. There's a lot to remember. Hip there, feet here, knuckles like so, hands up or she'll hit me in the face. She won't really, but somebody else could.

She held up the shields, and I started punching. My first cross sent her back a step, and she wasn't faking. She dropped the shields and looked at me for another long time...and then smiled.

The next hour passed in a sort of frenzy. By the end of it I looked like I had just stepped out of the shower, only I was joyful and not wondering if I had forgotten to rinse the conditioner. I learned how to jab, cross, elbow, knee, roundhouse kick, hook and smack down without smacking like a bitch.

It seems I may have one or two issues to work out.

When Maria drove me back to my car after class I thanked her for not letting me weasel out of going. She said I just looked like somebody who would be really good at it if I tried, and she knew better than me. That part was hard to argue with.

My second class was more of the same only I learned how to spin punch, hit from below and...that I really can't do a push-up even if the ground beneath me were on fire and it was the only way to save my own boobs. Hopefully, this will change -- and it won't be the only thing that gets better.