Boxing gloves. 14 ounces. Breathable, beautiful, and classically-black.
Did I mention that I’ve been throwing punches at my local UFC Gym? Not only that, but I’ve actually become a member—a fact that still surprises me considering my “free agent” status for the past six years. I gotta tell you, these classes…they’re invigorating—no, euphoric, to steal the words right out of a particular coaches mouth (he’s a retired Polish-Canadian who was last seen competing in the Light Heavyweight division of the Ultimate Fighting Championship. I, by comparison, was last seen devouring a birthday cake at a local Italian restaurant).
I harbor no intentions of getting into the ring myself. Simply being able to throw all my weight into a body bag is extremely liberating—not to mention, a kick-ass workout. After my first MMA-inspired session, my back felt like one of those old-world, cloth war maps, where each figurine is strategically placed to represent a battle defeat or victory. Every finger in my hand was sore, but in a good way. Feeling sore makes me feel alive. I listen to my body, knowing when to give it rest, and in return, my body lets me know when I’ve found an activity that I really enjoy. Rock-climbing? Tried it, and no thanks…but have me do 2 jabs and three uppercuts followed by a swift kick to the liver? I’m all in.
What do these gloves symbolize, besides hours of research and standing victorious in my Amazon shopping cart? I’d say discovery, and stepping out of my comfort zone. I’ve never had to navigate the world of fighting…from wrapping my hands in (what seems like miles of) cloth to protect the force of impact, to shadowboxing without looking like an idiot, to trying to mimic lengthy combinations…it’s a new fitness territory altogether. I’m a blonde fish-out-of-water at times but my athleticism kicks in more often than not. So I’m learning, trying to avoid neck tattoos, and ‘all smiles’ when I improve my technique in the smallest way possible.