The Thing About Masochism

Published September 24, 2007

By Lea McLellan

I didn’t want to go. It wasn’t fun. It hurt. And I hated it. After the first time, I figured I would have to be deranged to go again. Yet there I was, like a girl possessed, walking straight towards inevitable doom.

This time, I had even convinced an innocent and unsuspecting friend from class to join me. “It’s fun,” I told her. “You’ll like it.” I knew I was lying, but I couldn’t go by myself again.

We were on our way to kickboxing.

In my first class, kickboxing made me feel like a complete fool. I spent the first twenty minutes of my workout trying really hard not to laugh and worrying about my maturity level.

It all started with “boxing it up.”

I didn’t exactly know what this meant, and I’m pretty sure I did it wrong. Whenever our instructor told us to box it up, I tried to look casual as I scanned the room, trying to get a clue as to what the heck I should be doing. In the end, I kind of just hopped around looking like an idiot, biting my lip to keep from giggling.

I didn’t completely lose my composure until we got to the uppercut. “Pretend like you’re punching your opponent in the chin,” encouraged the instructor. I’ve never punched anyone in the chin before, but I did my best. My fist swung back and forth. My hips started moving involuntarily as I pivoted on my back heel. I didn’t look like I was beating someone up. I looked like I was dancing a pirate jig. I shook with silent laughter and cursed my immaturity.

But there came a point in the class, somewhere after the first water break, when kickboxing ceased to be funny.

I realized pretty quickly that there wasn’t anything hilarious about pain. I felt the tears streaming down my cheeks without even knowing that I was crying. Was I really so deep in the kickboxing groove that I had become completely out of touch with my emotions? I thought I had reached the ultimate point of mind over body, but as it turned out, I was just sweating. A lot.

I had sweat beading up in places I never knew even had the glands necessary to produce sweat: ankles, the tops of my hands…even my knees were sweating. I guess by the time I had sweat dripping off my ears, I should have been used to the intensity of kickboxing. But I couldn’t hide my surprise every time the instructor told us what we were to do next.

Whether she yelled over Missy Elliot to do ten power squats, twenty jab-jab-crosses, or a million knee-lift-kicks, my jaw dropped a little and my eyebrows raised as if to say, “is she freakin’ serious?!” But I did the power squats anyway, and told myself that this was the last time I would put my body through this hell.

I was in the middle of an especially grueling set of kicks when our fit little instructor passed me on her way around the room. She was hopping around, looking all toned, making sure we were all feelin’ the burn. “This workout is for you, nobody else! Eight jumping jacks; count with me,” she said.

I almost caught her in the face with my left kick by accident. I was glad.

For the whole next day, I couldn’t lift my arms without feeling a dull pain in my shoulders and my quads cried out in pain with every stair. Even so, I’ll probably be back in the dance studio Friday at 3:45.

I don’t think it’s fear of the freshman fifteen that causes me to torture myself. I don’t even think it’s the sixty-five dollars I shelled out for fitness classes. For me, kickboxing is like writing a paper early when you’d rather put it off until the last second, or calling your grandma even though you’d rather call your boyfriend. It’s one of those things that begs to be ignored but won’t go away until it’s done. And when it’s done, you actually feel a whole lot better.

So every week, I force myself to the gym and sweat my heart out. Afterwards, I pat myself of the back and eat a huge bowl of cookie dough ice cream like I truly deserve it.

I do deserve it.

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