I'm serious, y'all. Last night, the upper half of my t-shirt and the entire back was dripping sweat, no jokes. And all thanks to kickboxing. Or mixed martial arts, considering we cover every goddarn thing except Karate.
Every time our instructor makes us kickbox, he takes us on a la-la trip to the brink of death and brings us back. Stretch, push, bend, rotate, reach high, crouch low, and best of all, 20 push-ups if you don't answer his question with a resounding "Yes!" And yesterday, after an hour of near-fatal almost-heart attacks, the lift didn't work and we had to climb down the stairs. I cursed - at least the lift would give me a moment to calm my Chi the hell down! I'm not sure how dying is not a better alternative to all this. Really.
But the good thing is, i can feel my body become...powerful. There's still a long way to go before i can be as lithe and springy as a cat, but i'm getting there. I feel more...compact, like my skeleton's an air-tight container of pure muscle. My paunch is going, slowly but surely. It's a gorgeous, gorgeous feeling to see my body shaping up in a way that i've always longed it to for a while. Reminds me of the time i used to do crunches diligently everyday because i hated not having a flat stomach (despite having one). That was 15 years ago, you can see how things have changed.
Oh, and wait! Every time we're asked to shadow box and practice our moves, i imagine doing damage to A Particular Person. Punching him, boxing his face, kicking him in the groin...oooh, the pain i cause him in my head is delicious.
So yeah, all that sweating is worth it, i guess. I'd not be so happy to have a white tee cling to me like this even if i was getting out of the ocean in Goa, Halley Berry style. I mean it.
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