Date Night Challenge: Kickboxing

Fist Fight and Date Night: two phrases that aren't typically synonymous when my husband and I go out. Until now.

If you've read my goals for this year (click here for that post), then you know I'm ditching the normal 'dinner and a movie' date routine with my husband to give us opportunity to inject more Happily into our Ever After.

There's nothing like a good fist fight to take the normal out of a routine.

A year ago, I joined a kickboxing class to help me shed some of the "baby weight" (and as said 'baby' was almost four it was long overdue).

The class was tough. I puked in my mouth a few times.

But over the course of the year, I became adept at roundhouse kicks, jabs, and the like. I was particularly proud of my hook. I could hit the living hell out of the bag with it, and took perverse pleasure in the resounding smack when the bag connected with my pink-gloved fists of fury.

When my husband suggested we go to a night class together for a mini-date, I was all for it. I had an alterior motive.

See, Mike's better at sports than I am. He was the jock in school. I was the bookworm. His dribbling was with a basketball. Mine was after two drinks. But I'd had a full year of kickboxing classes. He'd had none. I was bound to be better for once. He'd get a taste of my hook. In a nice, loving-couple-working-out-together sort of way, of course. {**cue evil laughter**}

Surreptitiously, I watched him as the workout began. Although he's a heavy weights workout guy, he hung with the cardio, dropping to the floor, matching me push-up for push-up. While I struggled through my last few, he looked over at me with a boyish grin.

Grinning? There's no grinning in kickboxing!

I bared my teeth, focusing on the mats beneath my shaking arms where drips of sweat falling from my eyelashes and nose formed a blot-like Rorschach pattern. Focus pads were next. I couldn't wait.

Toweling off, Mike indicated I could punch first. Ever the gentleman. The timer dinged for the three-minute round. Oh, I so had him. My pink gloves flew in the jab-jab-cross-cross pattern and I reveled in the staccato "tip-tip-smack-SMACK" beat of my fists on Mike's focus pads.

He wasn't grinning any more.

The buzzer sounded, ending the round, and I switched my gloves for the focus mitts, confident I'd done well. His turn. I widened my stance, nodding my readiness. The buzzer rang. 

WHACK! 

The strength of his jab caught me off-guard, smacking the focus pad backward into my mouth. Before I could recover, the other jab was coming at me. Whack! The focus pad drove into my face again. I stumbled out of range of his cross, muttering a curse.

"I'm sorry, honey," Mike panted, dropping his gloves and looking contrite. "You okay? I won't hit as hard next time."

"I just wasn't ready," I growled through punch-numb lips. 

My eyes narrowed. My stance widened. It was on.

His three minute round felt like an eternity, my forearm muscles cramped from gripping the focus pads. He hit hard. My turn. I hit harder. His turn. He hit harder still. On my final round, I was swinging from my heels, determined to keep pace, ramping up my workout to an unprecedented level. Until, blessedly, the last buzzer sounded. Class was over.

Bent at the waist, forearms on knees, we both gasped for breath. Wiping sweat from my eyes, I conceded. "You kept up like a champ."

"Had to," he gasped back, "You're one tough lady."

We grinned at each other like loons.

"That," Mike tapped my shoulder with his boxing glove, "was the best date night. Ever."

And it was. We have another 'kickboxing date' tomorrow.

Goal #3 for my 2012 goals--check for this month! :)

Dylan

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