I am seriously in love with my faux boxing class. I might not be so twitterpated if it actually involved burly men crushing IQ points out of my skull, but that hasn’t really come up yet. Until then, I’m gonna keep sitting here, writing love letters to the thing. There’s something about having one night a week where I know I’m going to push, or get pushed, to my limit. I know that every week I’m going to walk out of there completely sore, gross with sweat, but emotionally sated. I’m also finding that my “limit” is getting farther and farther away from me. I think when this is all said and done and I’m either awesomely ripped like that guy from The Biggest Loser, or depressingly fat like that other guy from The Biggest Loser, that’s what’s going to stick with me the most: This feeling that I can push all the bile and emotional baggage and self-loathing out of my body through my knuckles, and in return find it in me to go one more round, or even just one more punch.
I really wish I had a less lame way of saying that. The entire thing. I tried like eight times, but they all turned out to be Get-Up Kids lyrics, verbatim. That would have probably made for a better article overall, but I couldn’t find anything even tangentially related to my cheating whore of a scale.
Speaking of which, that thing had to nerve to tell me that I weighed 267 Wednesday morning. Fine, whatever. But then I got really drunk after my workout, and after not eating for like 12 hours, so ended up at 3am with a bag of McDonalds in my apartment. Ugh, that is exactly how you mainline self-loathing. So it was begrudgingly that I stepped on the scale Thursday morning. weighing in at 265. That thing needs to quit rewarding my shitty behavior.
Moving away from the note I left in Boxing’s locker, I almost lost my shit entirely at Dodgeball this week. I’m not going to whine about it in detail, because I’m a fucking adult. And also I already did, to like three people, but it’s mostly because I’m an adult, and it’s goddamn dodgeball. Suffice to say, I had to restrain myself from windmilling myself into a frenzy, bouncing back and forth like an errant and meatfisted top.