I hit like a girl...

Today I took it upon myself to go over to the boxing part of the gym... oh, yeah. Maybe I should back up to the part where I'm working out every day of the week (different muscle groups though), and that I have been since Ultra Boy and Space Pirate (MegaBoy? I dunno), started back at school. A few breaks, but otherwise relentless.

A few days back a friend suggested that she'd like to start up as well, being all sorts of out of shape since having left the Army. And what she likes to do most is beat the crud out of things. Which had me worried for a moment, but then I remembered that whole section dedicated to boxing in the gym. I go over there for situps.

She's never been, so I play tour guide for a moment or two, but she's got her own wraps and gloves and she's ready to pummel. Seriously.

We get over there, and it's the first time that I've been for any real length of time... there are no men. Nor boys. None. I wasn't the first one of us to make that observation, either.

Sam (yes, that's her name), leans over and mutters, "where are the guys?"

"Hey! Speed bags!"

Anyway, we spent something like 45 minutes taking turns on those large bags that hang down and have roughly the density of a human. I think I spent something like 15 minutes to her 30.

Oh, yeah, and another interesting thing I learned today: carpal tunnel friggin' hurts. I was almost crying when I left the gym. Which, being male, means that I need to do that kind of thing more often.

We're stupid that way.

I was actually sweating and out of breath by the end of the workout, since I don't know what the words, "pace yourself," mean, in the same way that I don't really get, "the rules... follow the rules."

After seeing the kickboxing, butt-kicking, death-on-legs brand o' woman that I did today, I think I can take "you hit like a girl" as a compliment.