Kickboxing in the Bedroom

Since I was a junior in high school, I have worked out pretty much every day. It all began when I started running as an “independent study” PE class. Still not sure how I convinced them to let me do that, but since getting in shape the first time was so horribly painful, I vowed to never get out of shape.

I really stuck to that, too. My “days off” from exercising at BYU consisted of church and hiking the Y, starting not from the parking lot of the Y but my apartment at 700 North. I took family and friends on walks they called “death marches”. The morning after having my first child, Travis mentioned he couldn’t believe I wasn’t going to go running that day. I tell you this not to brag (well, maybe a little) but to illustrate that working out is not something I take lightly.

Travis, on the other hand, is a fit guy but has never been one to do a “conventional” workout. No gyms for him; he prefers to ride his Swedish Army bike over the Manhattan bridge to work instead. Three weeks ago this all changed, when he and his sidekicks (co-workers) decided to join a kickboxing gym. Thus the ass-kicking began.

I’m a veteran kickboxer. Several months after my daughter was born I came to the realization that taking an infant running in her baby jogger when it’s 13 degrees outside is probably not the best idea. I was desperate for another form of exercise, and purchased several Tae Bo DVDs that I use three times a week to this day. When my son was about 6 months old, and was going to bed before his daddy came home and waking up after he left, I’m certain he thought that Billy Blanks was his father. I would load the DVD and the second Billy came onscreen he would begin to smile and coo. I didn’t hear him do that in response to Travis until months later.

Granted, Tae Bo and REAL kickboxing are probably somewhat different. But Travis is acting like he just invented Cadbury Mini-eggs or something. Every time I turn around, he is posed in an “attack” position... it’s a bit like living with a ninja. You never know when he might strike. Every night after he’s “kicked ass” he comes home and asks if he looks buffer. Then he shows me all his bruises from the workout, and finishes off by pleading for a massage. Please. If I acted like this every time I worked out we would be in serious trouble.

So today, we were “sparring” (his word) in the bedroom while taking a little break from packing. There was not much actual physical contact until I faked a roundhouse kick, not really intending to kick him. Travis blocked this kick by a full-force knee into my shin. It hurt like hell, and still does. Tomorrow is Sunday and I can’t wait to wear a knee length skirt so I can point out my enormous bruise to anyone and everyone. Do I hear a domestic abuse case brewing?