Every Wednesday Mr K and I venture the short half-mile journey to a local boxing gym and put ourselves through an hour of delicious physical torture. I always feel so invigorated when I come out of a boxing class that I literally believe I can do anything, and in a way I can.
This post is a love letter to stretching so hard your legs might catch fire, punching so fast your arms seem to triple in weight, and to being so tired that you forget to block punches and get smacked in the teeth.
It is a mark of my affection towards this class that I am willing to plank for longer than a minute, or to even entertain the idea of performing repeated and agonising reps of lunges, push ups and squats in the name of “warming up”. I am not famed for my stamina.
However, within 15 minutes of my first boxing class I knew I’d found something I was going to love.
I’m not a violent or aggressive person, but the hooks and jabs make me feel powerful, alert and strong.
Sometimes we’ll work so hard that I can feel my muscles getting actually hot – like I might start a fire with my thighs during squats, and until you’ve pushed through that pain and felt the exhilaration of completing the impossible set, you cannot appreciate the true joy of exercise.
There’s something really rewarding about walking, jelly-legged, down the stairs after class – clothes clinging to you, cemented to your back with sweat, arms and legs tingling. I’m often found cursing it the next day when I can’t lift a cup to mouth height, but I love it.
Boxing, you’re my baby.