52 Words For Tai Bo

After New Year’s, I decided to cash in the gift certificate that Charlene got me for my birthday. It was for a one-month membership at L.A. Boxing.

I didn’t know exactly what L.A. Boxing was all about, but I assumed it had something to do with boxing. And, I like to box.

I had to fill out the typical nonsense gym membership paperwork when I got there. Questions like: What are your fitness goals? How long have you been thinking about a fitness program? What’s the name and number of a friend that we can harass into joining the club?

After the paperwork, the guy behind the counter pulled out a class schedule and said, “Let me tell you about our group classes…”

I had once heard that Eskimos have 52 words for snow. This guy had 52 words for Tai Bo. ‘Group Kickboxing’, ‘Group Boxing’, ‘Group MMA’. It was all Tai Bo to me.

“That’s ok,” I interrupted. “I’m not really interested in group classes. I just want to hit the bag.”

He gave me a nod, handed me the schedule, and said, “Here’s a copy of the class schedule just in case you change your mind.”

As I was putting the schedule in my gym bag he asked, “Oh, by the way, do you have gloves?”

“No. I don’t wear gloves,” I explained.  “I just use hand wraps.”

“That’s cool. It’s just that the owners are pretty strict about everyone using gloves. Ya’ know, in case of cuts and things.” 

I knew exactly what he was talking about. My bare knuckles had left bloodstains and blood spatter on the hard leather of many a heavy bag. And I didn’t always have the decency to clean it up when I was done either.

He handed me a pair of gloves from behind the counter and said, “If you don’t mind…”

I wrapped my hands, slapped on the big, comfy 16-ounce boxing gloves, and went to work on the heavy bag.

My knuckles were in heaven. It felt as if there was a cloud of softness between my fist and the bag on every impact. “He-he-he,” I giggled like the Downy Bear after each punch.

“You look disgusting,” Charlene noted when I returned home from my workout red faced and covered head-to-toe in sweat.

“Why, thanks,” I replied as I approached her with open arms. “You look like you need a hug!”

“You better not come near me, you fucking asshole” she asserted as she back stepped away from me. 

I pretended to make chase and then turned off into the bedroom to change out of my wet clothes.

“So, how was it?” she asked.

“It was good,” I reported. “But they made me wear those stupid ass boxing gloves.”

“Why?”

“Because they don’t want blood to get all over the punching bags.”

“Gross!” Charlene exclaimed. ”Does that really happen?”

“It does when I hit the bag,” I said plainly. “But never as bad as this one guy I used to work out with. It looked like a crime scene when he was done hitting the bag. There was blood on the bag, all over the floor, the walls, the mirrors. It was nasty.”

“Ew. I think you should wear gloves from now on,” Charlene advised.