Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain...
So today Terry and I dove right into boxing. By 'dove' I do mean, headfirst with arms flailing, high-pitched screaming and ending in an unfortunate splat on the hardwood floor. As he wrapped our knuckles with tape, the trainer asked what form of exercise I'd done before. From the corner of my eye, I could see Terry mentally ticking off her almost daily laundry list of cardiovascular exercises (they involve jump ropes and videos of black men in scary short shorts).
I laughed. Er, nothing?
Sensing that he wasn't into jokes so early in the morning, I shrugged my shoulders and said, "y'know.. pa-jogging-jogging, pa-yoga-yoga..."
I noticed that when Filipinos repeat their words, especially if they involve physical exertion, office supplies and sexual history, they are mostly like to be false.
My exercise regimen is usually fueled by alcohol or a heavy meal. Oh, I'll take the leisurely walk after dinner or go dancing in a club or bar once or twice a week but other than that, I can be found horizontal on a couch wheezing at the television. How I remained relatively healthy after years of leading a sedentary lifestyle is beyond me. Probably my naturally skittish nature and tendency to walk around a lot simply because I keep forgetting small items (or my life's purpose) from time to time. That's the only possible way I can explain it.
But back to our first day. To warm up we would do little stretching exercises and then do three sets of five-minute jump rope sessions. Now I hate jumping rope. Back when I was younger, I always took the role of rope swinger because I couldn't catch the rope more than five times in a row. No, my specialty was Chinese garter. Jump rope? Pfftt... Suffice to say I was wilting ten minutes into the program. Terry on the other had was like a metronome, switching from one foot to the other and even jumping using both feet at the same time. To my credit, I only hit my head twice with the rope. Next up was the leg work, which went fine. I've racked up enough hand-feet-eye coordination dancing in parties. Then the punching. Woot. Yay. I was good at punching, which the instructor (I think his name was Gora-- something thuggish and incomprehensible) noticed. Finding my strength, which was pummeling inanimate object with my fists, Gora egged me to a full round of non-stop punching using his padded hands and a noxious, evil smile I wanted to wipe off so bad. After two rounds I was ready to hit the mat. "Water..." I croaked. Since my hands were bound with gloves, Gora had to hold the bottle for me. I really felt like an invalid then. Next, he pushed me to the giant punching bag and instructed me to just keep my arms up chest-level and jab lightly at the bag. The damn thing was so effin' heavy I barely made it move. My arms were dead weight and my lotioned-to-death knuckles were already searing under the padding. Across the hall, Terry wasn't faring any better. I could see the panic in her eyes 20 meters away. Despite the soft punching, I was still huffing. It's hard to keep your arms up and hit things when all they want to do is reach down the ice-filled water cooler down the hall. I wanted to dunk my head in as well, just to end my misery. Two bags later, Gora started winding down routine by making us step up and down the ring, which mimics the Stairmaster's effects sans the Suzanne Somers flashbacks.
We were supposed to do two more rounds but my desperate body was looking for a way out. The clock saved my ass, literally. It was 8:20 a.m. and work started at 8:30. Gora was nonplussed. He sent one of the other guys to cool us down with a round of stretching. I liked our warm-up stretches, but the cool-down was heinous. They resembled the advanced Yoga poses, all pretzel-like. I left not feeling limber but used. Terry, whose muscles were more used to grind looked worse for wear as well. We must've made quite a sight, shuffling to the office with towels slung on our heads, hair dripping wet from the shower, looking like cows who'd been spared from today's slaughter. We were certainly very bovine-like eating our breakfast in the pantry.
The power to type this entry is otherworldly. I think my body is simply trying to get as much work down before the pain really settles in. Let's see how this goes next Thursday. Gora said he had a whole new set of things for us to do. I just hope they don't include jump ropes. I really despise them. Perhaps I can bring a set of garters, wind them up around two post and do my high kicks. They're kinda cardio, no?
I laughed. Er, nothing?
Sensing that he wasn't into jokes so early in the morning, I shrugged my shoulders and said, "y'know.. pa-jogging-jogging, pa-yoga-yoga..."
I noticed that when Filipinos repeat their words, especially if they involve physical exertion, office supplies and sexual history, they are mostly like to be false.
My exercise regimen is usually fueled by alcohol or a heavy meal. Oh, I'll take the leisurely walk after dinner or go dancing in a club or bar once or twice a week but other than that, I can be found horizontal on a couch wheezing at the television. How I remained relatively healthy after years of leading a sedentary lifestyle is beyond me. Probably my naturally skittish nature and tendency to walk around a lot simply because I keep forgetting small items (or my life's purpose) from time to time. That's the only possible way I can explain it.
But back to our first day. To warm up we would do little stretching exercises and then do three sets of five-minute jump rope sessions. Now I hate jumping rope. Back when I was younger, I always took the role of rope swinger because I couldn't catch the rope more than five times in a row. No, my specialty was Chinese garter. Jump rope? Pfftt... Suffice to say I was wilting ten minutes into the program. Terry on the other had was like a metronome, switching from one foot to the other and even jumping using both feet at the same time. To my credit, I only hit my head twice with the rope. Next up was the leg work, which went fine. I've racked up enough hand-feet-eye coordination dancing in parties. Then the punching. Woot. Yay. I was good at punching, which the instructor (I think his name was Gora-- something thuggish and incomprehensible) noticed. Finding my strength, which was pummeling inanimate object with my fists, Gora egged me to a full round of non-stop punching using his padded hands and a noxious, evil smile I wanted to wipe off so bad. After two rounds I was ready to hit the mat. "Water..." I croaked. Since my hands were bound with gloves, Gora had to hold the bottle for me. I really felt like an invalid then. Next, he pushed me to the giant punching bag and instructed me to just keep my arms up chest-level and jab lightly at the bag. The damn thing was so effin' heavy I barely made it move. My arms were dead weight and my lotioned-to-death knuckles were already searing under the padding. Across the hall, Terry wasn't faring any better. I could see the panic in her eyes 20 meters away. Despite the soft punching, I was still huffing. It's hard to keep your arms up and hit things when all they want to do is reach down the ice-filled water cooler down the hall. I wanted to dunk my head in as well, just to end my misery. Two bags later, Gora started winding down routine by making us step up and down the ring, which mimics the Stairmaster's effects sans the Suzanne Somers flashbacks.
We were supposed to do two more rounds but my desperate body was looking for a way out. The clock saved my ass, literally. It was 8:20 a.m. and work started at 8:30. Gora was nonplussed. He sent one of the other guys to cool us down with a round of stretching. I liked our warm-up stretches, but the cool-down was heinous. They resembled the advanced Yoga poses, all pretzel-like. I left not feeling limber but used. Terry, whose muscles were more used to grind looked worse for wear as well. We must've made quite a sight, shuffling to the office with towels slung on our heads, hair dripping wet from the shower, looking like cows who'd been spared from today's slaughter. We were certainly very bovine-like eating our breakfast in the pantry.
The power to type this entry is otherworldly. I think my body is simply trying to get as much work down before the pain really settles in. Let's see how this goes next Thursday. Gora said he had a whole new set of things for us to do. I just hope they don't include jump ropes. I really despise them. Perhaps I can bring a set of garters, wind them up around two post and do my high kicks. They're kinda cardio, no?