Punch air; Cross eye - A Boxing Story in Double Vision

It started with a big, and I mean obscene-blob-of-a-waistline BIG, wake up call.
I made the mistake of pestering Jiggs to send me copies of our San Francisco-Monterey trip. I should have known something was wrong when he said he couldn’t upload the photos to one of those freebie sites. The file was just too big, he said.
Soon, I’d learn why. My tech-challenged friend finally managed to send me all 70 plus photos of obscure-looking streets, somewhat-interesting curbs, striped freeway railings and a few recognizable faces.
One particular blurry photo caught my attention: I had puckered-up like a fish, attempting to mimic the hundreds of tiny sardines swimming in the aquarium above me. A herring, however, I definitely was not.
With a bulging gut that screamed “Orca,” it seemed I was destined for BIGNESS even as a creature of the sea.
Though I never really fit the svelte-seductress mold, I didn’t think I’d pass off as the “Before lypo” poster-girl either.
I guess I always thought I was just – as my parents politely put it: big-boned. Looking at the photos however, it seemed the only problem with my bones was the fat wrapped around it.
Over ice cream and brownies, I drowned in self-pity; wondering HOW those pounds and inches ended up in body parts I could no longer see (like a second gut now covered by a third).
Then, driving home one day I chanced upon a fitness enclave where scantily-clad women huffed and puffed non-existent fat out of their reed-thin bodies.
My gut, quite literally, could not have felt more out of place. But the ex-car salesman of a gym instructor sold the idea of a “reunion with my lost waistline” all too well – I signed up.
I could almost hear “Eye of the Tiger” playing in the background as I scoured through bags of old clothes for salvageable sweats.
Thank heavens for the 80s revival, I could once again put my old leggings and tights to good use. Eat your heart out, Jane Fonda.
My first destination as a registered gym member: the weights floor.
With Schwarzenegger fierceness, I looked my reflection in the eye and did the first of three sets of standing army presses.
It was quite embarrassing to grunt and gasp like Mr. Universe while raising Tinkerbell-weights. But I couldn’t help it, five-pound dumbbells are definitely enough to leave me short of breath.
Halfway through my second set, the intense stares of other iron-pumping maniacs weighed down on me. It was time to leave.
Just as I was getting ready to throw in the towel, I saw five curvaceous (read: chunky) women bending and stretching on the other side of the thick glass that separated the weights from the weighty.
On the door, it said: KICKBOXING. In my mind, it read: YOUR ONLY HOPE.
Although my last encounter with the Tae-Bo man cost my VHS player its life, I thought I’d give kickboxing a try. Seeing other women struggle to reach their toes gave me some hope.
I walked in the room, chin raised to the heavens with pride. I knew I could still bend and snap with ease - this class would be a breeze!
I picked my spot on the wooden dance floor, gave my reflection a stern “don’t-chicken-out” stare and anxiously waited for the kickboxing master.
In a minute, the speakers blasted: “One, little two, little three Macarena.”
What place did the Macarena have in an exercise class? That, I still don’t know.
Out came the instructor – bursting with Richard Simmons enthusiasm – screaming: “We will bring the Macarena-fun to kickboxing! Are you readeh?”
“Keep your eyes on your nose, keep your eyes on your nose” – she chanted while throwing punches to the air.
Being the obedient student that I was, I stared at my nose, not understanding how being cross-eyed would help me throw a meaner punch.
An hour of punching and nose-staring went by and by then, I was too dizzy to notice I had turned my neighbor into a reluctant punching bag. She asked me to sit or leave.
So I sat and waited for the class to end - Macarena tunes screeching in my ear.
Still woozy from the cross-eyed boxing experience, I approached the instructor and said: “I really enjoyed your class, but I don’t understand how everyone else managed to keep their balance while punching and staring down at their nose?”
I watched her jaw drop as her hand reached up to scratch her sweaty head. To her, my question probably sounded as stupid as her choice of music did to me.
However, not wanting to lose my business, she calmly said: “I’m sorry, I meant look at the REFLECTION of your nose in the mirror – I didn’t think I needed to be that specific.”
With that, my chin went crashing to the floor. I rubbed my belly and thought: Orca, it’s time to go home.