Concerning the Continuing Adventures of the Pampered Pugilist; Or, How I Learned to Take the Punches and Like It

The major development in my entanglement with boxing is that somewhere along the way I lost my fear.

I think it's probably because Maria got injured and doesn't come to sparring class anymore, so the threat of leaving with a black eye or a bruised jaw is greatly decreased. So I have started getting bold with my opponents.

At first, it was easy to keep Kora at bay; like a chipmunk, she alternately darted and halted, hungry and unfocused. I could kind of jab her around. However, Kora broke up with her boyfriend and simultaneously found her hook. When I felt that hit, I snapped to attention. Soon we will see what Kora is fully capable of inflicting onto others. She is naturally sassy and fearless, so this probably won't be pretty for me.

Mike is about six-foot-twelve, of unabashedly sweet temperament and indeterminate Scandinavian descent. When I first saw him on the bag, his arms seemed to take two full seconds to unfurl a punch, and when they made contact, the bag swung high and wild. One time, the bag spasmed, dislodged, and hit the floor.

I quickly learned that, despite Mike's enormous wingspan, you can never quite see him coming; he is a free-jazz boxer, with a rhythm all his own. So I learned to be light. He will lunge at you with a hook that could make the blind see -- using only half his power, because he is a gentleman -- and you have to sit, slip, weave, or pull your sorry ass back, and try to at least graze his chin with a right before he can fully retract his arm. And think light, light, light. After several rounds tonight, our faces were both purple-red and we were staggering. And yet I remembered: pirouette, pirouette, and mustering all my energy, I danced. That got me the hell out of that round.

Tina was there tonight. She is adorable, but every time I see her on Wednesday I have a flash thought: "Crap." She closest in line to being the second coming of Maria: tiny -- five-two tops -- and fast. And I now know for certain that fighting tiny people is far worse than fighting tall people, for when they hit, they don't hit the proverbial bull's eye on the forehead of your headgear. They hit upward toward your jaw, lip, nose. I took a few hard pops from Tina, but no bleeding or swelling resulted, so I'm grateful and high as a kite on endorphins.

And I made an appointment for a Christmas facial, courtesy of a most delightful and generous friend.

Life is sweet!