THERE’S SOMETHING TO be said for comfy PJs, a good movie, a bottle of wine and pizza on a Friday night. A lot of my friends from the office were headed to The Bayou – of all places – and asked if I wanted to go, but I gracefully declined. I still hadn’t recovered from the prior weekend. I typically need to mentally pump myself up before heading out to bars, unless a good band is playing, in which case, it’s all about listening to good music and not checking out the guys.
“Pizza’s here,” I call out to Kaitlyn who is in her room studying.
“How can you eat those?” Kaitlyn asks me when she sees the half-black olive, half-pepperoni pizza.
“Easily, I love them,” I say referring to the black olives, which Kaitlyn detests, claiming they are salty, slimy, and gross.
“No kidding; you’re the only person I know who will eat them straight out of the can.”
And I would. A whole can in one sitting. My love of olives (every variety of olives too) is so great that for Christmas my parents would leave wrapped cans of olives under the tree. They thought they were being funny; I thought they were being kind.
Kaitlyn and I decide to watch the latest Emily Blunt movie; it is part sci-fi and thriller—not my usual type of movie, but Kaitlyn talks me into it. As she explains a chick-flick might be too depressing and a good action movie will take our minds off our non-existent love lives. She is right. As I watch Emily Blunt wreak havoc on a bunch of bad guys—I’m talking full-fledged karate-chops, swift leg kicks, and men falling to the ground—I suddenly realize what is missing from my life:
“Karate!”
“What?” Kaitlyn asks.
“I need to become a badass,” I declare. “I’m going to take up karate.”
“Really? And you figured this out tonight?”
“Yep. There is a reason why we had a miserable time last weekend at The Bayou,” I continue.
“There was?” Kaitlyn asks facetiously. She knows me and my need to justify every situation.
“Yes, if we didn’t have a bad night, I wouldn’t have decided to stay in tonight to watch a movie – this movie – where Emily Blunt is kicking butt. And if I didn’t see Emily Blunt kicking butt, then I wouldn’t have realized that I need to kick butt too.”
“Oh, of course. That makes sense. That’s why we’re home on a Friday night,” Kaitlyn replies, not even trying to disguise her sarcasm.
“Well, you’re home because you’re supposed to be studying.”
“I was studying . . . now I’m taking a break.”
“Well, tomorrow morning, I’m going to find a martial arts class and sign up.”
I go to bed happy, knowing that I have a plan. My new hobby will be martial arts; it will allow me to focus my energy on something other than being recently dumped and it will get me into tip-top shape. I fall asleep imagining myself as a muscular badass.
“NO PAIN, NO GAME,” I say to Marcus after he makes fun of my hunched-over walk. My first day of martial arts has done a number on my body.
“No gain,” Marcus responds.
“What?”
“It’s no pain, no gain,” he corrects me.
“That makes no sense. You work out so that you lose weight, not gain it. It’s ‘game’ like you’ve got ‘game’.”
“No, silly, you gain—never mind. So, what brought on this desire to work out?” Marcus asks. He is taking great joy in the fact that I can barely stand up straight. My stomach – correction: my core – is in so much pain that walking and standing is challenging.
“I am not working out; I am taking Taekwondo.”
“You are,” Marcus laughs. “And what brought this on?”
“I want to become a badass.”
“Excuse me?”
“I decided that I needed a new hobby, something that will empower me while getting me into shape.”
“So, you decided karate was your answer?”
“Taekwondo,” I correct Marcus. “You get to use boxing gloves with Taekwondo and punching bags.”
“And apparently it is quite a workout,” Marcus says with a hint of sarcasm. I can never tell with him.
“It is. I had no idea. It’s actually quite brutal.”
My Taekwondo classes are every Monday, Thursday, and Saturday—a busy schedule that will distract me from my lacking dating life. I am quite proud of myself; I actually followed through on my Friday night declaration of finding a martial arts class. I’ve been known to make wine-induced resolutions that I do not honor. This one I did.
And I love Taekwondo too. The first class was only an orientation—an introduction of what the classes would entail—with kicks, punches, jumping rope, and sit-ups. It is the sit-ups that catch up with me later. The next class, however, seems more official with all of us receiving our Taekwondo uniforms and boxing gloves. Sure, I have to start as a white belt, but regardless, I still look tough.
My boxing partner is a hot brunette named Logan. He doesn’t look like a novice by any stretch of the imagination—and my imagination is having a good old time. He is slender (but not too skinny) and muscular in all the right places.
“Remind me not to get on your bad side,” Logan says to me while I am punching away at the bag he is holding during our drill. I admit, I was punching extra hard, giving it all my effort to impress him. There’s nothing wrong with a little added motivation.
“Just working out a little work stress,” I answer. “Your turn.”
“Not sure if I can beat that, besides, I’m a little nervous about punching the bag too hard. I may knock you off your feet.”
“Is that a promise?” What did I just say? “I mean, I dare you to try,” I add in an attempt to backpedal.
“Is that a challenge?” Logan answers playfully. “Do you think you can handle me?”
I can feel the heat on my face. Does he know what he is saying? Is he flirting back? My hands begin to sweat, which makes holding the punching bag even more difficult.
“Go for it,” I say in my best attempt to sound tough. Emily Blunt would be proud.
Logan begins punching the bag, first lightly and then harder, jolting me back a few times.
“Is that all you’ve got?” I tease, excited about my new tough demeanor. I’m typically not that brazen, but the class has somehow empowered me; it is if I am playing the role of a tough action hero. It must be those endorphins you hear so much about.
“I’m impressed,” Logan says to me after class.
Sweat is pouring down my face and back. I look around at the other girls in class; they are glistening with their faces shining in all the right places. My face is beet red and sopping wet.
“Here’s a towel,” Logan says handing me one of the class-supplied towels. A true badass works up a sweat, I tell myself in consolation. Glistening girls are amateurs.
“There’s a juice bar next door, want to grab a smoothie,” Logan asks.
“Um, sure,” I answer trying to sound nonchalant and calm.
“So, what made you decide to take this class?” Logan asks while we sit in our sweat at the smoothie shop. A large bead of perspiration trickles down my butt; Logan seems unfazed.