Kickboxing Dream

When you are old enough to know cause and effect, you know that “You want to go to kickboxing tonight?” translates to, “You’re gonna eat lightning and crap thunder!” And because that would make a good story to tell Al Roker (he's literal and he'll believe you), you say sign me up for the shitastrophe!

In my “softer” days, I would prefer to maintain a horizontal position on the couch, my tush comfortably nestled in the cushions, head propped up by pillows, remote control resting on my belly. Exercise would be exercising my right to not watch Two and Half Men, Big Bang Theory, or Gary Unmarried or any other ABC shitcom with a laugh track (because people need to be told when to laugh, is the way ABC sees it). I exercise my right not to laugh on cue. At least when there is no reward of a treat manufactured by Haribo. (My tongue is wagging and I answer to Bruiser by the way. Some things will never change.) So this whole get up off the couch and sweat it out brain trust that I’ve been assigned is merely a salve from the depressive (i.e., lazy) funk that has permeated my every fiber of being, comfortable as that couch may be. It answers to Lov-ah.

In preparation for the workout, I drink a glass of raw egg yolks, shadowbox up Constitution, run up the steps of the Capitol, leap in the air, and shake my fist. (Secret Service mentally taking notes of this Cool Factor to add to the boss' routine. Since the Mom jean's didn't work on the baseball field.) Theme track unfortunately drowned out by a diplomatic motorcade, because when in DC…

When I arrive at said kickboxing studio I’m reminded of a set leftover from Rocky. The ring, the Snoop soundtrack, Mike Tyson. I make a mental note to save my ears. I conclude that the gym was bought on Ebay with the advertisement: Apollo Creed v. Italian Stallion. There’s a sign in the water fountain that says, “Don’t spit in the fountain.” Because frogs, snails, and puppy dog tails will do so if you don’t give them a friendly reminder that, hey, your spittle that comes from the bowels of your stomach...is kind of disgusting. Boys.

Then I hear the laugh track, Al Roker comes out from the wings in all his jollyness, and my ear starts to feel cold and clammy. Al's asking me something about bowels and thunder and he's wearing boxing shorts. And that's no TKO my friends. That's when I wake up to a thunderstorm and my dog licking my ear. Yet, AL ROKER IS STILL PRESENT.

I change the channel and nudge my tush deeper into the cushion and coo, "Oh, Lov-ah." That is, after Al Roker was long gone.