A former collegiate field hockey player and current distance runner, I have always considered myself a health nut (despite junk food attacks and love for micro brewed beer). Staying physically fit is something I have been passionate about since the time I could lace up sneakers. Whether it’s a bad breakup or a bad day, exercise has always had amazing mental and physical effects on me.
Given this background, I have taken on a new challenge. In this blog, I will describe my experiences as I break out of my fitness shell: kickboxing, basketball, Pilates, Zumba (though I may regret mentioning that last one). I have stuck to a few things for the past 21 years: running, field hockey, circuit training, a bit of lacrosse. From speaking with trainers and gym teachers, however, I learned something: muscle memory is a double-edged sword. Yes, running consistently leaves your mind and your legs feeling great, but switching up your fitness routine is what will get you the toned arms, the flat tummy, the shapely behind.
For my first fitness makeover, I decided to take advantage of one of the classes that F&M offers to its students: kickboxing. I must admit, the phrase, “I really want to do kickboxing!” has escaped my lips more than twice within the past few months, and I finally forced myself to take on the new physical challenge.
For starters, I consider myself a more private recreational fitness guru. My post-team sports life has included solo running with the occasional jog with my parents, sibling, or boyfriend (he’ll slow down for me, how cute is that?). A fitness class has never really been my thing. Still, I found myself with in a class with 25 people on Wednesday afternoon after my writing workshop at 4:30. The class cost five dollars, and it seemed only fair to pay for my friend whom I dragged out with me on this particular rainy day.
I was not quite sure what to expect; I consider myself a pretty in-shape person, especially for a college student. I figured the class would be a good work out, a variation in my normal exercise routine, at best.
The trainer, an athletically built woman who could pull off yoga pants like no other human I’ve seen, set herself in front of the group. She showed us basic kickboxing steps: a hook, jab, cross, front kick, sidekick, back kick. Then, Lady Gaga began pumping through the stereo, a “Go with the beat!” interjecting from the front of the room. Rhythm? Memorization? Two minutes into the warm-up, I was ready to sprint out of the Woods Room, down the steps of the ASFC, and proceed with my normal campus loop.
I am no expert in kickboxing, and I do not for see myself becoming one in the near future; however, I do recommend that every young woman take some type of self-defense class at least once in her life. Usually, colleges offer these sorts of classes for a few hours through their campus police (Public Safety does rape awareness and self-defense classes here at F&M). Learning basic moves is a must, and could mean the difference between survival and harm. I won’t lie; the thought of kicking some butt in real life was a motivational factor through the hour-long workout. I’m sure I looked nothing like a Charlie’s Angel, though I was picturing myself as Cameron Diaz.
To finish us off, the group did lunges and frog jumps across the room, with dreaded push ups in between.
In hindsight, I acted far too cool when I said to my friend, Colin, post-work out, “Honestly, I think I could go for like a two-mile run.” Ha! I’ve experienced such disconnect between my mind and my body before, but most of the time they have involved at least two glasses of wine and far less endorphins. I awoke the next morning sore in well, everywhere. Arms, back, ribs—because, apparently, there are muscles on your ribs. Did I mention the mysterious bruise on my knee?
The verdict? Once I got over my initial embarrassment about my lack of coordination, I really enjoyed the upbeat tempo of the class. As long as I don’t kick box in front of a mirror, this is definitely a class I will attend again. The trainer was enthusiastic, the price was affordable (how often can we say that about anything about F&M?), and the work out left me sore for two days.
Charlie’s Angels might need a new addition.