Rocky VIII

Actually, it could be Rocky IX, I lost track of them after about Rocky III. Anyway the point of the story is - I've decided to start kickboxing. I figure it might clear my head a bit, not to mention make me feel a bit safer walking past the dodgy men's hotel down the road at night.

This wasn't an entirely voluntary decision however, my colleague practically forced me to go last Friday night. I hesitated all day but after a slightly counter-productive pre-session cigarette I decided to just go for it. At first, it was painfully obvious I was the new girl. Apart from being punier than everyone else, I was pretty much the only one not adorned in professional looking kickboxing trousers (which I have to say are far less flattering than yoga pants so I wasn't too disappointed to have my humble H&M trackydaks*). The kickboxing attire seems to require big, slightly shiny black pants and oversized black tshirts. I think I'll have to work on that.

Over the next hour I was kicked, punched, wrestled to the ground, forced to undergo a torturous series of pushups and weird tantric-style exercises which left my colleague and I either rolling on the floor in laughter or contorted into some weird acrobatic position. And I loved it! I came out feeling like I had actually achieved something, despite the fact my kicking technique leaves a lot to be desired and probably couldn't even deter one of the little street punks that skate outside the club.

But the best thing about this particular kickboxing club? One of the trainers owns a bar...right around the corner. So after class we all trooped off to the pub, looking disdainfully at the karate guys who had the room after us. (The story goes that we will be the fattest kickboxing club in town, thereby removing the need for the big kick-pads and using nothing more than the sheer force of beer bellies instead). It was so nice to be instantly accepted into the fold rather than scorned for being, frankly, quite hopeless.

Meanwhile I've been doing some hard thinking and I've decided on the advice of my wonderful friend S back in the Dam that I need to make some concrete plans to turn my life around. She also suggested a shrink, but since my previous three experiences with shrinks have involved a large American woman whose sole attempt at advice was quoting Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus at me as she served me particularly un-comforting herbal tea with powdered milk in it (I spent every session trying to decipher the university at the bottom of the certificate on her wall, I swear it had to be one of those "Study from Home" courses they advertise in TV Guides), a nicer American guy who really just listened and didn't actually give me any advice, and lastly a well-meaning young woman who earnestly told me that I should stop choosing unavailable men and do a study course instead. Hmm. So hundreds of dollars later I might be an aspiring masters student with a self-help book collection but that's about it.

I think I'll stick with the kickboxing.


*trackydaks - noun - Australian for tracksuit pants, usually particularly daggy* in nature
* daggy - adjective - Australian for "resembling the clothing of a loser", originally from dag*
*dag - noun - apparently a sheep-farming term for the poo that clings to the wool around a sheep's butt