Fox In The Hen House: My Life As The Only Man In A Cardio-Kickboxing Class
Fox In The Hen House: My Life As The Only Man In A Cardio-Kickboxing Class
Bullshit advertising! They were hitting me from all sides. The guy on the sign had more defined abs than Jesus, circa “The Cross.” The woman next to him looked like a cross between a dominatrix and a professional pillow fighter (aka: the sexiest woman I’d ever seen). The message was clear:
“If you want to be him, or get with her, you better bring your chubby ass inside!”
Kickboxing seemed perfect. I could get into a fight, and never lose — those sandbags rarely kick back. I imagined I would walk in and immediately look something like Jean-Claude Van Damme in Bloodsport. Or, Kickboxer. Or, Time Cop — those splits!
Little did I know I was about to get one of the biggest whoopings of my life: A beatdown of the ego. I showed up for my first class wearing my go-to Nike shorts (the ones with a hole in the crotch big enough for a peek, but small enough to prevent “junk-spillage”), and a loose t-shirt. But no one in the small humid room was dressed like me. The outfits were tight. The attitudes were chipper. And oh yeah, EVERYONE WAS FEMALE. I have nothing against females. Some of my closest friends and most distant exes are female. But, workout partners? Come on! I’m thinking to myself, “Great, I paid $25 for a slap-fight class.”
After some hugs and warm greetings the lights went down and the volume of the T-swift song went up. Somewhere after the stretching and positive reinforcements, those sweet, tender-looking women turned into a pack of killing machines… similar to the plot of that T-swift video I’ve never seen.
As I said, besides the burgeoning spare tire, I’m a fairly athletic guy. And, no matter what their game faces looked like, I am a MAN. A BIG STRONG MAN, DAMMIT! And, this is a man’s world! Only that it isn’t.
It’s a woman’s world, and I was going to regret ever stepping foot into it.
When I go to the gym I stick to a strict regimen of:
- 90 seconds lifting.
- 2–3 minutes looking for weights.
- 5 minutes rest.
- Repeat… maybe.
But, this class JUST. KEPT. GOING. Running. Planking. Push-ups. Crunches. Rest (Just Kidding!) More planking. Burpees. More running. Squats.
And that was just the warm up. The full details of what happened are still quite blurry, but what I do remember is that it seemed to never end. We punched, we kicked, we ran. But, the one thing we didn’t do was stop. It was like Billy Blank’s wet dream. (Do people remember him? Tae bo?)
If I was a woman, I totally could have just have blended in with the rest of the class, and snuck in some strategic rest moments. But there I was, at the center bag, lobbing up soft haymakers in between dry-heaves and muffled whimpers.
At a certain point my only goal became simply to not die during class. It seemed inevitable that death was coming, but if I could only stave it off until the end of the hour I could crawl outside and die in the street with some dignity.
And as I glanced over at my classmates — assuming they were all mentally preparing their last will and testaments as well — everyone seemed cool, calm, and collected as they expertly moved from jab, to uppercut, to sidekick with the fluidity of, well, Billy Blanks. No one was wearing the extra layer of sweat that I was. No one else’s face was covered in tears that they were trying to play off as eyebrow sweat. No one else was spewing a mixture of cursing and prayers under their breath. They were all fine.
I didn’t physically die that day, but my ego was on life support for a while afterwards. The battle of the sexes wasn’t much of a battle at all. Although the women in the class were extremely supportive and cheered me on as I wrapped up my first class with a speed round of punches that would barely register as “aggressive tickling,” I knew I had completely underestimated the situation.
On my way out I faked as big a smile as I could and told the instructor, “Of course I’m coming back.” But, we both knew the truth: those sandbags would never again feel the wrath of my weak jabs. From that day forward I made a solemn vow to stick to “man sports,” like beer-softball leagues and fixing shelves.
Every now and then, I pass by that kickboxing sign, the ripped man and woman still there. Still judging. But, then I think, “fuck them.” You know what I mean? Fuck them.
