the gym

The last time I exercised with such gusto was in the late 90s when I trained with a boxing coach, which I absolutely loved and would do now if I had the expendable income I always seemed to find when I was a bartender. When I found out the downtown Y was offering a “boxing class,” I was cautiously optimistic. Cautious because I tried kickboxing there, and in addition to it being a slightly humiliating form of exercise, I found the shitty instructor quite annoying. He had us doing punches (in the air), and he corrected my form. Even though my form was spot on. I wanted to keep doing the high kick right up to the front of the room and kick him in the throat. I refrained. There’s already too much violence in the world.

So, Alicia (my original workout partner) and I go to check out the boxing class tonight. It’s at the unfortunate time of 7:30 – too late to go straight from work, which means going home for a bit and then going back downtown. I’m still trying to keep an open mind. We work out for two hours beforehand so we can be around to check the class out (without taking it) and be on our way. We get to the room. No one else is there except for the instructor. If you happened to read my post about the lonely racquetball instructor we encountered a couple of weeks ago, this guy is cut from the same cloth. Guess those are the only people who sign up to teach classes at the Y for free. Lucky us.

We walk in and he’s on us. Here, put on some hand wraps. No, I say, we’re just here to find out what this class is about. He says he has to show us, and I say no you don’t – we get the boxing thing (I mean, as far as a shitty class at the Y goes – I’m not saying I can hop in the ring and kick someone’s ass) (though I think I could have taken this old fart). He asks what gym and I tell him. He asks if we know some jackass who I’ve never heard of. I say no. I’ve worked out at that same gym off and on since ’98. I know those guys. This guy is full of shit. Strike one.

Alicia is a much nicer person than I am (at least on the outside). So he’s focusing on her now and ignoring me. Strike two. I’m telling him we JUST WANT TO KNOW WHAT THIS FUCKING CLASS IS we don’t need a lesson in how to stand with the gloves on you jackass coot. He doesn’t hear me because I don’t exist since I am standing in the way of him proving his machismo by having Alicia hit him “hard” in the arm. Strike three.

Guess he thought the thrill of the gloves would suck us in. Well, I have my own pair so I’ve already been sucked. Wait…that didn’t come out right. Anyway, Alicia senses I’m about to go super bitch on this guy so she gracefully gets us out of there. He tells us to come back on Monday. Yeah.

I hate it when jackasses ruin what could be a perfectly lovely experience. We just wanted to get our exercise on, but this old fart wanted to prove his virility instead. He should just take some Viagra and enjoy his four hour hard on. Maybe he can put a boxing glove on it.

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