Please Pass the Advil

First, I feel compelled to confess the fact that Jack and I bailed on the Fighting Irish yesterday. We had perfectly good tickets in section 134 (above the student section), given to me (for free) from one of my buddies in St. Fozzie's marketing department. I verbally accepted the tickets last week and they didn't materialize until Friday afternoon, a scant 24 hours before game time. Since I decided I was too busy to drive home to SB for the weekend, I tried to find an owner for the tickets. Since it was so late in the day, I couldn't even Fedex them overnight. So they sat, unused, in my briefcase.

It turned out okay, though. Jack and I both worked in the morning and accomplished a lot for our respective jobs. We went to a sports bar to watch the game and ended up meeting two of the nicest Michigan fan we've ever encountered. They rooted for the Irish and we shared stories from our individual undergrad experiences. The four of us cheered the Irish onto an overtime victory, despite our collective angst at ND for creating nail-biter games every single week!

That was the fun part of the day. My masochism got the better of me earlier in the day. Because I have that ritzy gym membership that I feel guilty for not utilizing, I decided to try a few of the exercise classes. I took the Spinning class a few times and felt ready for a new challenge. So yesterday morning, I joined the BODYCOMBAT class. One, I should have known it would be tough, since the word "combat" is part of the title. Two, I should have known that a class with its title in CAPS would prove reminiscent of an Army training drill. I walked into the exercise studio and asked around if anyone had attended this class before. The woman to my right answered, "Yeah, and I thought I was going to have a heart attack!" Great! I love heart attack-inducing work outs!

It started off benignly enough, with aeroboxing moves I've known for years. I was having fun, I already knew these moves! Take that, pent-up stress!

Then the choreographing started, with intricate foot movements and corresponding punch sequences. After a few tries, I caught on. Take that, Jillian Michaels!

Then another instructor stepped up on stage. To the beat of mesmerizing dance club beats, she taught us martial arts moves focused on balance. My core hasn't been worked like that in a while and after swaying unsteadily a couple times, I caught on. Take that, Karate Kid!

The martial arts moves quickly turned to street-fighting moves, where we were encouraged to "bash in the skull with your elbows!" and "Keep him down on the sidewalk and keep beating him!" The music swelled to a frantic pace as I obliged and beat the crap out of my imaginary attacker! Take that, imaginary rapist!

As I was bashing skulls and beating some attacker senseless, I felt my vertebrae cracking. I felt my left deltoid stretch a little too far. I felt my left calf muscle buckle after 45 minutes on my tip-toes. Gratefully, the pace of the class slowed down and we resumed the regular aeroboxing moves again. We eventually stopped the boxing and spread out on the floor to stretch our poor, exhausted muscles. I held "the plank" a little too long and felt my abs strain painfully.

I hobbled out of the studio and headed home for a well-earned, long, hot shower. I emerged feeling pretty great. I can DO this BODYCOMBAT class and LIVE to TELL about it. Who-hoo!

Then I sat down and worked and watched 7 hours of football. I realized it was NOT a good sign that I was already sore from my workout and it was still the same day! Every hour increased the pain exponentially, and I found myself repeatedly reaching for the Advil. The gym offers this class on Tu/Thur/Sat...so I only have 48 hours to recover before the next session!