On a rainy Friday night in January, I decided to go back to
my old kickboxing gym to see if I still felt the same thrill I used to feel
taking classes there so many years ago. I walked in, paid the $20 fee for my
“introductory” class, searched in vain for a familiar face…but didn’t find one.
There would be no surprises in this class—all kickboxing classes take the same
format. Three, three-minute rounds of jump rope to warm up, followed by
stretches. We’d practice techniques and combinations; we’d partner up for pad
work, followed by conditioning exercises. Even though I knew what to expect, I
was still nervous. I wrapped my hands quietly in the corner. When I was done, I
found a small open spot on the sideline and started to jump up and down to warm
up. The instructor was the tallest Thai man I had ever seen. At least 6-ft
tall, he was an intimidating figure. I wanted to make sure he knew I was “new”
and that I hadn’t kickboxed in at least five years. I wanted every handicap I
could get.
I trudged through the warm up, no music, no chatting, all
business. A surly-looking petite Asian woman led us through the stretching exercises.
Not a hint of brevity. We partnered up and my partner was Rory, a very fit,
coordinated and experienced fighter, mostly boxing. I found myself apologizing
before we event started. “Sorry, I hope I can keep in up, I haven’t done this
in five years.” Even though I had been
doing a version of working out since October, I was in no way conditioned to
last through even three minutes of a simple punch-kick combination. I could
feel myself gassing out quickly but I was at least trying to keep up. The
instructor kept a special eye out on me; I was self-conscious but it’s what
good instructors do—they watch. They correct. He said I had pretty good
technique for someone who hadn’t kickboxed in a few years. I silently beamed
inside.
We finished off the class with some conditioning exercises;
some knees to the bag. I felt myself getting anxious as the next class rolled
in. Wondering if I would see the Ex at the boxing class that followed. I didn’t
have long to wait before I caught a glimpse of him wrapping his hands by the
tiered benches. Quickly, I thought…I need to get the hell out of here. I
stuffed my gloves, my jump rope, my sweaty wraps into my tote bag and headed
out. The gym was hot and steamy and I appreciated the cool night air hitting my
face as I walked back to my car. I did
it. I had stayed away from this gym for so long because I wanted to avoid
seeing the Ex. Tonight, I had faced the fear and it felt great. It wasn’t the
big revenge moment that all of us dream about post break-ups. Our eyes never
locked; I hadn’t made him regret hurting me in one dramatic moment. We
just…ignored each other and I slipped out of the gym as quietly as he slipped
in.
I surprised myself. I discovered I wasn’t as enamored with
the gym as I thought I would be. The experience had left me wanting. It lacked
fun, lightness and a good soundtrack! It made the decision to go back to the
Emeryville gym very easy. I knew going back to Emeryville would be the best
decision for me and it was only after I visited my old kickboxing gym that I
knew this to be true. The road to a healthier me is still ahead. I am happy to continue that journey on my
own, at a new gym with a renewed sense of purpose and a fresh start.
