This is a blog that I started in May and just never got round to finishing off. Sorry for the delay.
Spring in the Northern Hemisphere not only has all the sparrows plucking and preening themselves to look good, but the same could be said of almost everybody at this time of year. Code named 'Operation Beach Body', which is kind of ironic as Madrid is miles away from any beach, sees everyone making concerted efforts to get themselves in ship-shape for the approaching summer season by dieting, hitting the gym, or doing whatever it takes to lose those extra kilos of winter lard. That included me. Only with me, as with almost everything that happens to me, life was about to teach me another lesson, or better said, remind me of one I should have known well. And I was about to learn it the hard way!
I figured I'd start my exercise regime with a medium intensity boxercise class to ease myself back into the game, before taking on the heavy weights, no pun intended, in the weight section. There were five of us in the aerobics hall: three women, of which two were standing in front of the mirror putting lipstick on - need I say any more; one outrageously tall and gangly guy who looked like he'd lived his life on a diet of growth hormones and I immediately nicknamed him 'Skinny Malinky Long Legs'; and myself. I looked at him pitifully and smiled confidently to myself thinking that this was going to be a breeze. There was no way that a signal from his brain to his arms and legs could travel faster than my moves, and even if it did, he didn't strike me as the type who have what we call 'co-ordination'. I was sure to assert my dominance. It was during that brief moment of smug, self-satisfaction, knowing that I was going to be the best in the class, that the other class participants entered. Another two women that I can only describe as Amazons plucked out of the pages of Greek Mythology and translated into aerobics hall, and four other guys that looked like they'd stepped off the movie set of Fight Club, replete with shin high boxing boots, those shiny, silky knee length boxing pants, white vests that clung like Cling-Wrap to already perfectly tight, sculptured torsos, and all bore tattoos of ethnic design all over them. And then there was me. Me wearing bootlegged tracksuit pants and an ancient t-shirt, faded from over use and completely stretched out of shape to the point where one sleeve hung below my elbow.
Surreptitiously, I skulked my way to the back of the room, to be near to Skinny Malinks, while Rocky, Rambo and the Amazons indulged in a little shadow boxing, bopping and weaving the imaginary blows from their imaginary opponents in an effort to warm up. I on the other hand, tactfully rotated my head from side to side, and swung my arms backwards and forwards at my side. At the instructor's command, we all picked up some skipping ropes from a box in the corner, took up our positions and awaited the whistle to begin. My first attempt at skipping had me jump too soon - the anticipation of it all got the better of me - and my feet landed as the rope came down in front of my knees. My second attempt had me jump too early and too late. I can't work out which it was, but the rope somehow ended up between my legs. On my third attempt I took to it like a fish to water, and as I looked at myself in the mirror, all I saw was the perfect picture of grace and agility. That was until I looked at the Rockies, Rambos and Amazons and realised that not only did I look like I was skipping in slow motion, but my style of skipping looked more like I was running the hurdles or jumping over unseen boulders in my path, while their feet barely seemed to leave the ground. To make things worse, for every one skip I did, they seemed to do ten. Skinny Malinks was faring no better than me, and every time he swung the rope over his head it skimmed the ceiling with a ticking sound and came wobbling distortedly down to his feet. His movements reminded me remotely of a giraffe at full gallop, and again looked at him pitifully. The instructor's whistle signaled the end of our 5 minute warm up, which to me felt like an eternity. Our heart rates were supposed to be around 100-120 beats per minute, but mine I was sure was closer to 180. It felt like with all the jumping my heart had somehow got lodged in the back of my neck. Not only could I feel every throb but I could hear it too.
Next, we were placed in pairs to start the boxing circuit. To my horror the instructor separated Skinny Malinks and I, and teamed me up with Rocky and him up with Rambo. My first station was that silly little teardrop ball thingy doo-dab that dangles in front of you about face height. The thing you're supposed to rhythmically punch. Rocky went first to show me how it was done. He was poetry in motion. His hands moving so fast they were a blur. I on the other hand, was completely unable to make any connection with the ball - physically or otherwise. It was as if the ball had a mind of its own and was determined to dodge my gloves. Nothing gave me more satisfaction than abandoning that station for the next one: the kick bag. Again Rocky led the way by going first, telling me to stand behind the bag and stabilise it by leaning into it with a bear hug. His first kick left me slightly winded. Truthfully, it felt like the bag didn't even exist, so I felt it safer to turn slightly sideways and stabilise it with my hip. Once he was done, there was a decisive donga in the place where his repeated blows had struck. When my turn came, he explained to me how I was to kick and with which part of my shin was to connect with the bag. I kicked with all my might. Repeatedly, energetically, determinedly, hoping that he too was being slightly winded behind the bag, but my kicks hardly budged him or the bag and didn't even leave a dent in the fabric. It just felt like my shins were going to snap in half every time they made contact with the bag.
Station number three was a breeze. Sit ups, push ups and sprinting on the spot. I achieved all targets within the given time limits resurrecting my confidence levels and sending them soaring to new heights. Now, trickles of sweat were cascading down my face and back. Station number four was going to be the leveler - literally. Donning what looked like over-sized padded oven gloves and a padded gladiator helmet, I was now going to be the target of Rocky's potent blows. The idea, apparently, is to use the gloves to fend and push away any and all blows from your opponent. All was going well for about the first 45 seconds, until my mind wandered and I thought to myself, 'why the helmet?' It hadn't occurred to me, chiefly because it hadn't been explained to me, that blows could also come in the form of kicks. It was while wondering why I had to wear the helmet, that Rocky decided to change tactics and launch a kick. A kick so powerful and hard, that when it connected with my glove, it made me punch myself in the face and knock myself to the ground. Lying on the floor, I couldn't help by wonder if I was knocked out. Had Rocky knocked me out, or would I have to bare the shame of having technically knocked myself out with my own hand? When would the world go black around me? Right now it just looked like opening your eyes underwater without wearing goggles. With the music sounding soft and dull like it was coming from another room way down the end of a long corridor, I remember feeling somewhat serene and at peace looking at the world horizontally from the floor. My serenity was soon shattered when my blurred vision cleared and an assortment of boxing boots and trainers came into view inches away from my nose. I obviously had incurred no brain damage, as I distinctly remember thinking to myself that I hoped none of them had recently stepped in any dog poo on the pavements; and that the faces leering in over mine and repeatedly asking me if I was okay had no bad breath.
Finally, sitting upright, I began to regain my composure and realised that my left eye was slightly swollen and would soon develop a mild 'shiner' as they say. I looked around at the faces still leering in over my head, and tried to assure everyone that I was fine and everything was okay. This time, in a reversal of roles, there was Skinny Malinks looking pitifully down at me, and probably rightly so.
Now, you don't have to go knock yourself out like I did. You can take a page out of my book and remind yourself of one of life's vital lessons: 'Pride goes before destruction and a haughty spirit before a fall' - Proverbs 16:18. It's always best to think of yourself more soberly. Esteem others as better than yourself, and always watch out for life's round house kick!
