That Left Hook

What would you rather do than go to the gym? Watch wild bunnies fall for gently bred fur-ladies? Create your own Victorian wig? Go Back to the Future in 60 seconds?

Yeah, me too. But I’m glad I threw down my phone and hit the boxing club tonight–that’s Sorabella Training Center in Waltham, Mass. Conditioning classes are a mix of boot camp and gloves up pretending you’re Apollo Creed. (Preening in striped shorts is encouraged!) And the guys who run the place are pretty rad. And one’s named Brad. See it all rhymes and works out.

So, boxing. You can totally do this. It’s not kick-boxing–it’s better.

Sure, the gloves smell like cheese puffs, according to Patty, and I always forget to wear my contacts so it’s a blur of bags and balls and 20-something muscles (that’s what she said), but I never regret it.

Why? Because if I talked to my younger self, that silly singing, French horn-playing Anglophile who thought skirts over pants was the best fashion choice for 2005 and used to drive the quarter mile up and downhill at Tufts…

…she would be so proud of me for kicking ass out of my comfort zone and learning how to throw a left hook. Daisy Ridley would be, too.

“The female form is beautiful in all shapes and sizes, whether that’s athletic, straight up straight down or curvy; you just have to do what makes you feel good, try not compare yourself to other people and LOVE YOURSELF!!!” @daisyridley on Instagram

Tonight was tough, but in the words of Tom Hanks as Jimmy Dugan in A League of Their Own, “the hard is what makes it great.” (Also, “avoid the clap.”) And when you’re in the last ten seconds of a punch-out picturing yourself crossing the finish line at that last race, or playing The Clash or Two Door Cinema Club in your head and imagining dancing blindly at the best concert, or just relieved to be so close to the end of a workout you never thought possible even yesterday when you were couching it with a tin of Christmas cookies, it is great.

Ya did good. Considering the past two months? You whined, but you won. You get two out of five cats eating ice cream sandwiches, because sandwiches are better than stars. And my cat is literally named Sandwich (Sammy, for short). Like I said, it all works out. And so did you. Boom.


If you want to join me at said boxing, fear not! I will stand by you and guard you until you feel comfortable and cackle with you through the burpees, because burpees

I’ll be there for you. The Chanandler Bong to your Little HarMonica. We’ll kick butt together.

In the meantime, here’s a bonus catwich to get you through Hump Day.



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