Boxeo

There are lots - and lots and lots - of gyms here. Big gyms, little gyms. Fancy gyms, itty bitty janky-looking gyms. They're as common as bodegas in New York. However, I had a hell of a time finding one that offered boxing. "Aerobox?" No, sweet jesus no, not aerobox. "Quiero... golpear...cosas." Anyway, I finally did find a place about a 20 minute walk away and I can take boxing there 3 times a week and I am a happy, happy girl. Except this week, when I am miserable due to a rotten cold (the second goddamn time in a month I've been sick. Right before we left to come here my sister visited us and gifted me and John with some kind of stomach ebola. I turned into a one-woman vomit fountain, gasping and crying on the bathroom floor. Not that I blame my sister. Fucking whore.). My efforts on Thursday's class were lackluster, my wind was shot - all I could do was whack the bag around a little, and then step back and sort of gaze at it like I was hoping it would tell me to take a little break. And how is the class when I'm not begging to die? It's great. The teacher's a super tall dude with the semi-mullet a lot of fellas rock here. Lucky for me, much of boxing instruction can be done in pantomime. I feel a little rush of pride when I do something right and get a "biiieeeeen." The jumpropes are made out of some kind of industrial shipping cord with handles frayed into the edges. The other people are a real mix - some young, high-school age guys, a couple middle-aged tank-size guys, a couple nice-seeming office-type girls. Maybe someday I'll speak well enough to actually talk to some of them. Instead of, uh, TALKING WITH MY FISTS.