Yesterday, I channeled my inner Mike Tyson.* Since my knee injury forbids me to do any knee-things, I resorted to hitting a punching bag while everyone else in my Pump class did lunges, squats and other fun knee junk. In my mind, I was 100% positive I looked like Laila Ali when addressing the bag. Not the Dancing with the Stars Laila Ali, but the "I've got a 70-inch reach and am gonna knock your ass out," Laila Ali. The sleek, smooth boxer who throws crosses, combinations, hooks and jabs faster than I can chug a beer.
That fantasy was short lived. After class, someone, I'll call him Gym Dude, made fun of my pink boxing gloves. I meekly offered that the black ones cost $10 more. That wasn't very Laila Ali of me. I should have flattened him. Today, the pedicurist said she was too afraid to massage my legs because she might break my little ankles. I timidly apologized for my brittle state. I should have broken her nose. You're soooooooooooooo tiny, people tell me. Yeah, I'm a midget, I offer. Wouldn't a haymaker be a more appropriate response?
Where was Sonali Ali? The scrappy street fighter full of piss and vinegar? Evidently, she was down for the count and not getting back up. Somehow, I had become Scrappy Doo. The all-bark, no-bite loser cousin of a much cooler dog with a speech impediment.
I'm thinking it's time for a comeback.
*No ears were used as chew toys.
2 comments:
:( You'll be back in no time ... visualize Gym Dude AND the pedicure chick on the bags the next time you go.
Before you know it, you'll be back to doing all sorts of "knee things" and you'll feel better, I promise.
oh, god. was it haz mat pat?
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