Boxing 🎧

Back in December, I signed up for a boxing class but had to cancel due to a lower back situation.

I kept wondering when I’d sign up again. The owners were super engaging—not in a pushy way. But January had me tending to core work. I dedicated a lot of time to high planks (favorite), forearm planks, side planks (second favorite), bird dogs, and push-ups. I felt stronger than ever, but still hesitant to fight a punching bag (or a person holding up boxing pads).

If you’ve ever trained with me (or trained me) you know I have a difficult time accessing anger. I vividly remember a coach trying to help me increase my deadlift weight, yelling, “I want to see you get angry!” and me just… laughing.

Anger is the only emotion I desperately need to avoid.

Another memory I have is leaving my cousin an audio message, only to see a text from her pop up that more or less said: “You seem a little scary today.”

I was horrified. I didn’t take it from the place she meant it. In her world, it’s okay to be a little scary, or angry, or messy. In my world, I’ll take messy but leave those other two words out.

If you’re reading these words and you’re a family member or you’re close to me and you’re rolling your eyes like, “Bitch, I’ve seen you get angry.”—I KNOW. You’re right. I had a WordPress post about throwing a Christmas tree down a flight of stairs. I once pulled my keys out of my ignition so hard, I broke the actual ignition. I know I’m capable of anger.

I just reaaaally don’t like it.

So boxing seemed legit. Let me see if punching the shit out of a heavy block of a bag will awaken some okayness in me around this emotion. Make peace with it.

But so far, I’ve avoided booking the class. Or sending the text.

Until this morning—when a random dude said something offensive to me and Gigi. I shit you not, he sounded like Longlegs. Using a singsong voice to interrupt our walk.

Here’s the thing about this guy: he’s done it before. I used to feel bad for him because he is very clearly without a home. He’s a big dude, limps when he walks, carries his things around in a wagon with a loose wheel that makes a noise. One morning, he was resting on the steps Gigi and I usually sprint down, and he said, eerily softly: “Are you scared of me?”

I have no shortage of stories like this, for some reason.

Which is why… BOXING.

This morning, when he tried us again, he used that same singsong voice, and I don’t even remember what he said. All I remember is the quiet rage boiling through me. Both of my hands squeezed into fists. And that was unpleasant because one hand was holding a poop bag. I was furious. Furious that I was an object he felt okay making scared. Furious that he needs help. Furious that I was furious.

And I needed a damn punching bag.

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