Show No Mercy (to Cira) Kickboxing "Classes"

You may be surprised to learn, as I was, that the base I'm on offers a plethora of diversions including but not limited to: yoga on Monday and Wednesday evenings, a beauty salon where you can get a manicure or pedicure, hip-hop and salsa nights in the main gym and, I heard through the grapevine, a kickboxing class. Of course, my first choice was yoga but it starts about the same time my work ends so logisitically it wasn't ideal. My second choice was the beauty salon but that baby is booked through Christmas (apparently it was the first choice of many before me). Hip-Hop and salsa don't start until 11pm and I wake up at 4am. Enough said. That leaves kickboxing, by default. And, I figure, it's probably meant to be anyway because I really need a cardio work-out. Good stuff all around. Must be fate. It's gotta be destiny.

As it turns out, I think it's more like karmic come-uppance. I won't incriminate myself by detailing the abuse I heaped upon my younger siblings growing up but, let me assure you, the Universe was keeping notes and I'm getting back what I dished out - in spades. The kickboxing "class" is taught by some of the Special Forces on base and they teach by example: show no mercy.

I should have beeen suspicious when I looked around and saw only 6 other people in the class (besides myself and my hutmate, Erin, who works with the guy from Special Forces who granted us access to the class). Did I mention those six others were already in military work-out gear? That's right, I'm foreshadowing the obvious outcome of this tale but, read on, the journey is entertaining. The Teacher (believe me, the capitalization of "Teacher" is warranted here) asked if anyone had done any kickboxing. I was still clueless so I admitted I had done some aerobic kickboxing at home. He sauntered over to me and asked to see my hands. I obligingly provided them, still clueless. He said, "Aw, you got that soft, pretty skin." pause. pause. "I'll take care of that in no time at all." And that, my friends, was my introduction into the bare-knuckled kickboxing form known as Muay Thai.

I punched (well, I punched with my right hand, but I only manged to "push" with my left hand - hey, it was my first lesson!). I kicked. I'm not yet authorized to kick any higher than about ankle level but, let me tell you, at ankle height, I've got some power. After an hour of practicing my pushing and ankle kicking I was even allowed to spar. No, they did not allow filming so you will not be able to view it on You Tube and make fun of me. But if they had allowed filming you would have put it on You Tube and you would have made fun of me. And at the end of my one and a half hour lesson (but who's keeping track of every agonizing minute, really?) my Teacher advised me that my bloody knuckles demonstrated to him my willingness to work hard and granted me permission to return the following night. For more bleeding.

Talk to you tomorrow - if I can still type :).