It’s not even a young person’s sport. This sport is for the ones who want it, who are willing to work their asses off to advance in it, and who are able to take the hits and dish out a few of their own. Boxing belongs to you. You dominating the ring is acting your age.
2. You have passion. That’s sexy.
Listen, we spent enough years pussy-footing around the world, asking everyone for permission to try things we were curious about or to unlock doors we wanted through. Now you’re the bouncer at the club of your own future. Hell, you’re the bouncer and the show. That’s hot. That’s damned hot.
3. Figure out your limits. Then bust through them.
One thing boxers have in spades is patience. Nobody learns to box in 10 minutes. Or 10 months. When you’re over 40, you have perspective, and by gawd you’re willing to claw your way to the level of fight performance you want, no matter how long it takes. Let the kids get discouraged. Let them come and go. We’re still here. We’ve seen problems and overcome them. We’re sneaky as well as badass. Be warned.
4. You’re older and smarter, so adapt things you need to adapt.
Physical limitations don’t faze boxers. I don’t do bear crawls anymore — you know why? Because they wreck my shoulders, and I need my shoulders for the ring. There is no shortage of types of exercise. If it takes me out, I don’t do it. If it keeps me in, I’m on it. And that’s all the justification I need, sucka.
5. Give yourself the recovery time you need.
Truth is you’d have more aches and pains if you didn’t box. That’s why other people take prescription painkillers rather than just aspirin. God invented aspirin (and icepacks) so that we could go on boxing. But we also know how to work hard, then let our bodies recover. Boxers know that muscles build during recovery.
6. The turkeys will flap. Let ’em flap.
E’erbody got something negative to say about boxing. We’re listening, until we’re not. Then we’re boxing.
7. Eat clean. Fuel your sport.
When you were 28, you could eat like Honey Boo Boo, drink like a college freshman, and still go out and run a 10k the next day. You still can! But the difference is that now your performance suffers. The other night I came home and found my husband in bed with vegetables. Dayum, that was sexy. Other people can eat powdered donuts in bed; their sport is laying around watching television. Veggies make for great…performance.
Is it safe to box in your forties? Are you likely to be injured? Should you even consider boxing if you have small children at home?
That’s me, still boxing at 47.
I started boxing at 42, I have a husband and three kids at home, and looking back, I’m slightly amazed that I never had these questions back when I started. But in those days I had other, more pressing issues. I’d never done anything like boxing (or anything else) for myself before. I was miserable and depressed. I didn’t think my marriage was going to survive. I frankly didn’t care what happened in the ring; I was just blindly hoping for something to relieve the darkness.
Boxing pulled me out of the abyss, and taught me how to fight for myself and the things I wanted.
And as I grew more proficient in boxing (and life) and started to spar regularly, people began to pose these questions to me.
They’re good questions from people who mean well, and some of them come from people who are not (or haven’t been) boxers themselves. But they ALSO come from boxers, like the awesome Glowing Edge reader who sent this email (I’ve edited it slightly):
I started MMA and kickboxing a year ago when I was 40. Been largely enjoying it and making good progress. I spar and grapple so it’s not pure ring work and punching but I do a fair share of boxing and boxing training.
I’ve definitely been tagged a few times. Nothing knee wobbling and no concussions but stunned a few times and a swollen nose once. And I can give it right back.
So, I’m not really scared about getting tagged, but after training I have a lot of thoughts, like, I’m 41 years old. I have small children at home. Do I need to be getting hit in the head at all? With all of the stuff in the news about concussions/suicide/etc. is even this very modest amount of boxing a risk? I need my brain at this point more than my fists. I talked to my doctor and she said she isn’t too worried if I’m not doing frequent, full contact boxing but I thought I’d see what your thoughts are.
I don’t see myself competing in the future unless it’s in jiu jitsu where you can compete as a “senior.” However, I like to put the skills I have into practice. I’m in the best shape and the least stressed out I’ve ever been so I’m hesitant to limit myself to just the bag but I also want to be smart.
First of all, how fantastic to hear about someone taking up a fight sport and getting in such great shape. And clearly doing well and enjoying themselves! Also, he got checked out by a doctor, who gave him a reasonably cautious but optimistic go-ahead (I’ll talk about frequency of sparring below). That’s win #2, because not all doctors will genuinely support someone who boxes; some are very frowny-scowly. And finally, the good news is that it IS possible to compete in a “senior” division in boxing, just like in jiu jitsu. See below…
I’ll get there, I promise! But let me see if I can answer a few of the most frequently asked questions first.
1. Can you box in your 40s?
Sure you can. Plenty of us do. You can even compete in boxing in your 40s on an official amateur or a professional level.
Even if you don’t get in the ring for sparring or competition, you can get a phenomenal all-body workout with boxing and get into the best shape of your entire life. But you probably already knew this. I think the real question comes next.
2. Do you have to get hit in boxing, or can you box without that?
You CAN box with NO body contact.
You will hit things, but you don’t have to BE hit. You can do all the fitness training that goes with boxing, even hitting the heavy bag, speed bag, and mitts, without ever getting punched in the face (or body) at all. For people who have concerns about safety, there you go. Non-contact boxing is going to be the safest path for you.
3. Are you going to get injured if you box?
Boxing is like any sport; you can, and probably will sustain some sort of minor injuries.
All of my non-contact boxing injuries were the kind I could have gotten simply going to a gym to work out. Beyond the normal aches and pains, the torn rotator cuff (which I got doing unassisted pull-ups, and I don’t do those any more) was the worst.
Cesar Hernandez and Jose Santiago, both fighting over 40.
If you do spar or compete, you may get a black eye, or a bloody nose. The more serious injuries tend to happen to new boxers who are not as skilled and a lot more scared than an experienced boxer.
My worst injury in the ring was as a newbie — I got a broken rib, and that bastard hurt. Took me about 3 months to get over that one, but I haven’t been seriously injured since.
So. Minor shit, yeah. Big stuff? No. And I try to spar about once a week, and compete every year.
4. What about hard punches to the face and head? Aren’t they dangerous?
They certainly can be. That’s why boxers (at any age)
train with good coaches and sparring partners who have everyone’s best interest at heart.
And yes, there are lots of conversations in the media (even from President Obama, at this year’s Superbowl) and among scientists and pension boards about whether or not repeated concussions from boxing, football, and soccer are causing dementia, Parkinson’s, and a host of other problems. MMA head injuries are under the media microscope as well. All of those should be considered by someone who wants to get in the ring.
Have I thought about all this? Of course. But I also work pretty hard to mitigate the risks. And I haven’t been doing this since I was a teenager, so I’m not going to have the same number of years of it piling up like a young fighter might.
5. But professional boxers don’t wear headgear during their fights…
That’s true, and pro boxing definitely takes a harder toll on the body than amateur boxing, which requires competitors to wear headgear.
However, pro boxers don’t spend the majority of their time fighting at full power without headgear.
They spend MOST of their time training, lifting weights, doing intervals, and working the bags and mitts like everyone else. They spar more when getting ready for a fight, but even so, they don’t go out every single week (like football players do) and put themselves into the highest risk situations. They might fight a few times per year, even as many as 10 times a year in the elite circles. But the majority of boxers aren’t doing that.
6. Is boxing worse for injuries than other sports?
I might put competitive fighting (including MMA and all of the martial arts) in the top 10 of most dangerous sports, along with football, soccer, rugby, and cheerleading, but I don’t have any kind of science or data behind that.
But what about base jumping, free climbing, bull riding, motocross, pro surfing, scuba diving, street luge, BMX riding, heli-skiing, hockey, lacrosse, mountaineering, NASCAR, and other dangerous sports?
I do know that you can be mildly or devastatingly injured in any sport. You can build up cumulative damage over a period of years in any sport. It’s worth considering, but I’ve found that boxing is also worth doing.
7. Is it irresponsible to box if you have kids at home who need you?
Before I started boxing, my three sons had a mother who did everything for them and nothing for herself, and they had parents with a failing marriage. I don’t know if they knew how unhappy and depressed I was, but I know it’s very different for them now.
Since I started boxing, they’ve learned to do their own laundry, make their own meals, and they are expected to pitch in around the house. They have a mother who is tough and courageous. They have parents with a solid marriage and joy in life.
It’s clear to me which one is the better model.
I understand the people who worry about head injuries. I think that’s a reasonable concern, but I don’t see a lot of that in boxing, except at the long-term professional level.
Boxing teaches you to care for your physical, spiritual, and emotional health. It teaches discipline, respect, and balance. And fight sports are practiced in very controlled arenas, with coaches and teammates and specialized gear.
These all feel like very important life gifts and opportunities to have.
8. Should I let my daughter see her father fighting?
There are other parents who are not sure how they feel about their sons and (particularly) daughters seeing Mom or Dad punching and getting punched in the ring.
I think this is about personal preference, although I can tell you that I wish I’d discovered boxing LONG before I was in my 40s. But I had no idea women even boxed, and I’d certainly never learned anything about the real skills, training, and care that goes into learning to fight.
My sons aren’t particularly interested in boxing (not having grown up with it), but if you ask them they’ll tell you it’s kinda cool that their mom fights. They would be willing to come see me fight (and I’d love to have them), but I usually have to travel and can’t afford for all of us to go.
When people say “But you don’t want your children to see you getting beat up!” I always smile at the assumption that I’m getting “beat up” in the ring. Maybe otherpeople are getting “beat up” by me, I’d love to say, but I know what they mean.
I hit, and I get hit, but I’m also okay. I like my sparring partners: we laugh, groan, grunt, and sweat together. We try to talk over our mouthguards. We get yelled at by our coaches. We work on specific tactics and shots. We nod and acknowledge particularly skilled moves.
Some days I suck, or perform poorly, or am utterly outmatched. Some days I’m teaching and supporting newer fighters. But it’s not typically an atmosphere of anger or ugliness.
I’d be fine with my daughter watching, if I had one.
9. Should I consider competitive boxing if I’m over 40?
USA Boxing, which governs amateur competition in the United States, puts all boxers over the age of 35 into the Masters category. It differs from the younger age groups in that Masters boxers are required to have a few more medical checks, like an EKG every 5 years. And in addition to the normal weight regulations, Masters boxers can not have an official match with anyone who is more than 10 years older or younger than they are.
So of course you can consider competitive boxing if you’re over 40. And for some of us, that’s the first time in our lives we actually do consider it!
10. How many fights can an over-40 boxer expect to get?
There aren’t nearly as many Masters fighters as there are in the under-35 bracket, as you might guess. I haven’t tracked the men, but most years in my state (NC) there have been between one and three registered female Master boxers. I usually know who they are. I’d guess there are at least five or six times that many male Master fighters.
So there aren’t as many opportunities to get matches, but if you have the money and can travel, Gleason’s Gym in NY holds annual Masters tournaments and Ringside also has a Masters tourney every year.
It’s not impossible to get fights in your local area (I’ve done it), but often you have to find and get someone to travel to your location. Corporate boxing groups like Atlanta Corporate Fight Night, are a newer thing in the US, and also offer opportunities for 40 and up boxers.
Coming Next: Best Advice for Over 40 Boxers
When I raised the issue of fighting after 40 on the Facebook page for The Glowing Edge, I got some great responses from boxers about what to think about, ways boxing is different for us, and what factors are the most different. Since this one got a bit long, my next post will cover some of those items, so check back soon.
Meanwhile, I hope you’ll leave a comment below with your own questions and thoughts on the matter! Stay strong and keep swinging…
So I’m walking around at Lake Johnston, which has a lovely 5K circuit, getting ready to run.
I like running Lake J because it has one mile flat, one mile hilly, and one mile I-may-die hilly. AND a fabulous 100-yard boardwalk across the lake finish. Nothing like hearing your footfalls echoing across that last football field’s worth of planking to finish your run.
I notice two men, both about 20 years old, stretching out as if they are about to start the circuit. One is 6’2″ and scrawny, with what looks to me like a runner’s body. He’s not wearing a shirt, and he clearly has no body fat. The other is maybe 5’11”, trim, fit, and looks like a Marine. I decide to wait on both of them to begin so I can get them far enough ahead of me that I’m not bothered by their presence. I don’t like for other people to run on my personal private course, hah.
The tall scrawny one drops in and heads up the course. I nod and wait until I can’t see him on the path any more, then glance sidewise at Marine Guy, who is actively moving around, but isn’t headed for the path. Dammit, I’m ready to run and he’s wasting my time.
So I casually stride toward the start of the circuit, and begin a slow walk up the way, hoping he’ll jog over and head out in front of me.
Once I pass round the first curve I still don’t hear him behind me, so I break into my warm-up pace, and start bouncing out my demons, one at a time.
This is a process I go through nearly every time I run. I have to fight the part of me that offers up the same damn excuses for why I can’t or shouldn’t run today. Gotta pee, it’s too hot, there’s too much pollen in the air, I have a lot to get done, my knee aches, etc., etc., etc. It’s boring, repetitive, and I clearly have not matured enough to stop doing it, so instead I mentally go into my head and patiently kick the ass of every excuse in there until I have clear space in which to operate.
About the time I finish this process, Marine Guy pounds noisily up from behind me. He’s breathing too loudly for still being inside the first mile, indiscriminately chomping up the yards like a hungry dog in a garbage can. A wicked grin creeps across my face and I feel my inner competitor take his measure. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. I’m gonna take him down.
I continue my steady pace and wait to see what unfolds.
Sure enough, I cross the marker at the end of the initial mile, lean into the first steady incline, and as I come around the curve there he is, walking just ahead of me. I crank my pace just a touch and steadily reduce the distance between us. Marine Guy steps off the path as if he needs to stretch, and my inner genius gleefully rubs her hands together. She knows he Can. Not. Stand. To be Passed. Too bad!
I decide to keep my slightly increased pace just to rub it in. I feel awesome. I am in the zone. There is no effort involved in my run.
And to my complete delight, I drop over the top of a hill and see Scrawny up ahead, also walking!
It’s clearly time for Stealth Ninja Mode. I’m still not even breathing through my mouth, and my footfalls are essentially silent. As I creep up on Scrawny intending to pass, he starts to run again. I don’t care because he’s still in my sights. With as much of a head start as I gave him, he should have been way ahead by now.
I evaluate his form. He tosses his right foot out to the side when he runs. Needless waste and goofy-looking to boot. Long legs, though, of that there’s no doubt. He’s steadily cutting away the trail with giant, bent-scissor strides.
Marine Boy pounds up behind me again, and blows by on his bid for Scrawny’s place. I feel a spurt of anger, but tamp it down and hold my pace. The third mile will kill him and I will wait. Scrawny is the real prize here.
I pass Marine Boy again just before the end of the second mile; even these minor hills are too much for him. I do not grin or laugh, because I can see that Scrawny has increased his lead by a fair portion. I’m going to have to work for this one.
When Scrawny and I are in a straight-away, he commits a shameless sin: he looks back at me.
Hah! Let him see that a 45 year old harmless little mother of three is about to kick his ass! Oh, he should never have done that. Now his humiliation will be complete. I begin diverting a small stream of energy into a reserve tank; this battle is going to happen in the big hills of the third mile and I’m going to need some extra. I can hear Marine Boy galloping along behind me like a blown rhinoceros, but his sounds are fading. He’ll be lucky to take third, and he’ll only get that if a granny with a walker doesn’t pass him first.
We cruise into it, Scrawny and I, and on the second killer hill of the third mile I am within 20 feet of him. 20 feet! He crumbles into a walk and I dig my toes in, taking tiny steps, trying to keep running, but I know that if I pass now I won’t be able to hold onto it. I seethe and drop to a walk because I can cover more ground that way. Scrawny looks back at me (again!) as he tops the hill and disappears instantly over the other side. I grind my teeth.
When I come over the hill I can no longer see him. I increase my pace to see if he’s just around the bend, but I run the next quarter mile — including the worst hills of the third mile — without seeing or hearing him. I swear colorfully to myself and decide that he’s able to make his bid for the finish well before I can. He had more stamina than I thought. I comfort myself with knowing that I gave him a scare, anyway. With the head start he had, he should never have let me catch him at all.
I am still planning to finish strong on the boardwalk, so as I come into the final quarter mile I am ready to tap into my reserve fuel. And what do I see? What do I see?
There’s Scrawny, walking his sorry ass on the boardwalk!
Oh, this is gonna be very bad for him, very bad indeed. He’s already 25 yards down the bridge, but he’s walking. I really, really want this for my early birthday present, I do. I open the fuel lines and lengthen my stride, dropping onto the boardwalk with an interior war cry.
The instant he hears me driving toward him, he breaks into a run. He’s slower than before but he’s moving. He doesn’t waste energy looking back; he doesn’t need to. He can feel my approach. A startled fisherman looks up at me and I impatiently blow by a woman yakking mindlessly on her cell phone. This is my bridge.
Scrawny feels everything I’m doing. I’m hoping he’s tapped out, but he keeps running. I am way above my regular pace but I can’t take it up any farther. I close the distance to 5 yards, but in the end he holds on. He finishes ahead of me, and cuts sharply away from the trail toward the boat dock.
I’m furious and happy at the same time. He had to work hard for this run, and nearly had to confess on the stage of the world that twenty-five years and a solid headstart were not enough for him to run a three-mile circuit faster than a 45 year old woman. I curve around into a wide circle, wondering if I’ll see Marine Guy drop onto the boardwalk today. This week.
When I glance back I see that Scrawny has continued to walk ahead to the start of the circuit again. You ought to, I think triumphantly. If I were your coach I’d tell you run it again, just to make up for nearly losing to me the first time.
I stalk proudly toward my car. I am ruthless. I am relentless.
In January of 2011 I got some new comments on my post 9 Reasons to Start Boxing After 40. One of the women commenting was Jenny, who is 46 years old, living on the West coast. She had recently started taking boxing classes, lost some weight, and was excited about her next step in boxing: making the move from group fitness classes to private boxing lessons. That’s her in the picture.
Jenny and I spoke via email about how she is choosing to spend time (and money — she’s taken some smart and creative measures to find the money to pay for her gym membership) taking care of herself.
I wish I had learned that lesson long before I did. For most of my life I thought I could never leave the house in the evening or be unavailable to do things for my husband and sons. It was just crazy, but I know lots of women have struggled with that.
Jenny gets it. Her story is filled with the joy of boxing and personal discovery, and she gave me permission to share some of what she’s written here. May it inspire even more women to find their own strength, passion, and confidence!
Keep rockin’ it, Jenny.
* * * * * *
I was so nervous about my first lesson. I could tell my teacher was too; we really didn’t know each other that well.
We started from the very beginning and worked on the basics: how to stand, where to put my hands, etc. He likes a more sideways stance to your opponent. It has been hard to get used to because at first I felt that my jab needed to come from a leg twist. Now, 6 classes later I really get how I need to stay grounded and find the power through my legs. My jab is getting better.
The first few lessons we only worked on jabs and straight rights; now I’m up to hooks and uppercuts.
After a jump-rope warm-up, he gets me in the ring and I do some shadow boxing to start so I can loosen up and get my feet working. I feel like such a dork when I shadow box. I need to practice on my own in front of a mirror — I’m still really stiff.
My favorite is pad work. I love it. He moves all around and makes sure that I don’t turn my back on him, that I stay loose and maintain my correct stance while moving around. It’s a lot to remember.
And he’s also big on bopping me in the head. I’m getting better. He was only able to get me about 8 times today before I really blocked him. And that’s down from 12 last time. I made the mistake of telling him, so today he felt challenged to bop me 13 times. But he could only get in 8!! Yeah for me.
I just absolutely love it. It’s my favorite hour of the week!
I don’t even know where I’m heading with all of this or what my goals are. I just turned 46 and I want to keep getting fit and healthy. A still have a few bad pounds to lose and some good pounds to gain.
I don’t know if I’ll ever make it into the ring with anyone, but I’ll see where it takes me.
So I admit I’ve been thinking about my boxing ring name for a while, not that I ever admitted it to anyone. Er, until now. And I’m only confessing because I actually had to turn in a name for this fight in Atlanta.
I am telling myself that in roller derby I’d have had to register a name before I could hit the track, but in roller derby you’re supposed to be just a little bit wack. Just a little bit, of course. To take the edge off all that damned fine rough-and-tumble.
Boxers are soooo not wack.
Okay, I can hear the hollering and catcalls from here. You’re right, we’re wack, although we aren’t as cool as rollergirls. And yes, I’ve just convinced myself. Damn, I love blogging. Clarifies things, y’know?
So that’s me. Forty-four and punching the hell out of sh*t. Loving every minute of it and having no intention of stopping. Rusted and busted, maybe, but relentless. They need to consider giving me more than the official three rounds is what I’m saying.
Thanks for dropping by here, sharing the journey with me, and cheering like crazy people. Love y’all.
This is fantastic. I can’t wait to hear how this powerful 49-year-old from Walla Walla, Washington does in the cage. Her name is DeEtta Peterson, and she’s been training in jiu jitsu and MMA for four years and is an instructor at her home gym, Calhoon’s.
She narrowly missed out on a debut in the cage last week when her scheduled opponent couldn’t make it, but she expects to get a fight before she turns 50.
She’s gorgeous and comes across well on camera, which I hope will translate into some added attention for women in the sport. I hate that the comment stream where this story is posted on Yahoo is mostly garbage, but at least she got a television station to air her story and a couple of websites are picking it up.
I say ignore the idiots and kick ass, Peterson! Good for you.
Think about the difference between saying, “Yeah, I play a little basketball,” versus “The stitches don’t bother me. I have another fight next month; you should come.” C’mon, it’s just cool. And when was the last time you had legitimate Cool Points, when you downloaded the Zippo lighter app to your iPhone? Puh-leeze.
2. Business smarts
If there is one thing you must do to thrive in the ring, it’s develop the ability to think clearly under massive pressure. That translates really nicely to the business world. Mergers and acquisition? Hostile takeovers? High finance? Forty-seven third graders? Bring it.
3. Get your mind off of work
Forget business smarts, if you’ve been racing your career motorcycle this long, you might want to ease up on that throttle and get off the bike now and then. It feels great to unsuit and pound the crap out of something. And taking a few good hits will definitely clear out the last of your desire to work 24/7, I promise.
4. Increase your bone density
Ok, you’re over 40 and it’s time to lay off the loaded potato skins at T.G.I. Friday’s and get under that bench press bar. Your bones aren’t going to get stronger unless you bring them some game, and weightlifting — a boxer’s primary tool for building muscle — is just the way to do it.
5. Muscle is sexy
All that weightlifting and other training is going to pay off in terms of the way your body looks, feels, and delivers. You’ll like what you see in the mirror, and so will whoever’s looking at you when you step out of the shower. Hubba hubba.
6. Me time
It wasn’t so long ago that you couldn’t take your eyes off the kids for a second or they’d eat all the buds of the neighbor’s peonies and you’d be on the phone with Poison Control. These days, they’re a little older and you only have to worry about paying the extra car insurance, who they’re dating, whether they’re texting and driving, and… whoops, sorry about that. My point was going to be that you can get away some nights and have “me time” without them. Boxing fits the bill.
7. Mentor someone
Ok, if you just don’t get enough with the kids, you’ll find some at the gym. They will be faster and have a higher punch count and they will bring a serious press to you in the ring, but you’ll be able to outlast and out think them. And you have the maturity to see a much bigger picture than they do. Why not be a good influence and also kick their butts (in the later rounds) too? Now that’s what I call a satisfying mentoring relationship.
8. Get out of your comfort zone
Let’s face it, you’ve been trying to find a place of comfort and ease for years. Stop that, it’s not good for you. Get off your butt and out of your rut and learn something new. Growing means risks, and boxing has just the right balance of risk and safety to give you a jolt and still send you home in one piece. Mostly one piece.
9. Eat better
Believe me, you are not going to work hard enough to go a few rounds and then sabotage yourself with crap eating. If you take to boxing, you’re going to want to support it every way you can, and that will spur you to make positive changes to the way you fuel your body. You’re sick of sports bar food anyway. This is gonna be purely delicious.
I didn’t start out that way, honest. I started out just looking for a way to stay in shape despite a crunchy knee that prevented me doing distance runs. And there was that heavy bag that the Husband carted home for the boys that piqued my interest. But even when I shifted gears from regular boxing classes to joining the boxing team, I told everyone that I just wanted to learn technique.
Hello, have I met me? I’m frankly embarrassed at this flagrant show of self-ignorance. I’m competitive and athletic. I love a challenge that engages mind and body. I’m bossy and overbearing (truly pummel-worthy).
The fact is that no matter how slowly the ride began, the minute I climbed into an actual boxing ring and had a go at the sweet science, I was hooked. It was exactly like my first roller coaster ride: all the watching and studying just can’t compare to the incredible thrill of a single three-minute round. The need to focus, respond, endure, and deliver with power and speed is a competitive athletic person’s elixir of life.
So I shamefacedly went to my trainer and began my long speech in which I intended to admit that I would be utterly grateful to her if she could please get me a fight. This year. The sooner the better. Despite what I told her earlier. But first of course I needed to justify my changed position and include some stuff about how dedicated I would be. I had pirated parts of the “Mom, can we keep him, he’ll be real quiet and I promise I’ll feed him every day” speech and re-worked it for my purpose.
She let me begin without laughing in my face, but as I floundered around with my build-up, she shifted her feet and began looking around the gym for a distraction that might prove more interesting. I relented. “You know what I’m going to say, don’t you?” I asked, embarrassed.
“Well, yeah,” she told me, kindly not smacking her forehead. Or mine. She waited.
“I want to fight!” I exclaimed.
“Well, yeah,” she responded calmly.
“Can you get me a fight?” I asked, puppy dog hopeful.
“I can try,” she promised.
And thus began my fascinating indoctrination into the ways of competitive amateur boxing. Weight classes and rules have changed this year; I have to lose a few pounds in order to be at the top of my weight class (142-152 lbs) rather than the bottom. I have to start saving money because I’ll almost certainly have to travel out of state to get a match, given the dearth of female boxers in the Masters (i.e., old people 35 and above) class. I need to get very serious about sparring time, conditioning, and training with the team.
Runner Lisa: This will be good. I haven’t run on a treadmill in a while. Bad Lisa: My feet are killing me. Those new shoes were wretched all day at work. RL: I have on my Thorlos, my all-time best comfiest socks. BL: Ugh, Dr. Phil is lecturing yet another hapless teenage couple. RL: True, it would be easier to run without being forced to look at four channels on 16 screens. BL: Maybe just a short run today. RL: Although my aerobic capacity is good, from all that swimming I’ve been doing. BL: Horrors! There are plenty of treadmills free, why do the college co-eds have to run next to me?? RL: Oh, man. She is totally on our pace. BL: This soooo sucks. Let’s do weights. RL: No, you know what happens now. BL: No way, my feet are killing me. RL: Way. We don’t quit until she does. BL: She’s 20! RL: We’re experienced. BL: My day is ruined. RL: We may be here a while.
(two and a half miles later)
RL: I think we’re holding up okay. BL: This has GOT to end, I’m dying here. RL: I refuse to give in. I’m still breathing just fine! BL: Everything hurts.
(just under the three mile point)
RL: Look at that! I smell victory! She’s holding onto the rails so that she doesn’t actually have to haul her butt along! Fudger. BL: Cheater! RL: Slacker! BL & RL: Looooser! (exchanging a mental hi-five) RL: There she goes. Ha. We have proven our superiority. We win. We were right to pass on our genes. BL: Thank God it’s over. Let’s quit. RL: Wait, wait! She’s coming back for her towel; keep running like we have a couple more miles to put in. BL: You gotta be kidding me. RL: There she goes. Give her two minutes to leave the gym and we’re good. BL: We are so gonna pay for this tomorrow. RL: We are gonna do the victory dance all day tomorrow. BL: Let’s get hot wings on the way home.
The Maker: Has it been at least ten years since I was born?
The Mom: No. It’s been six years since you were born.
The Maker: Because I’m six?
The Mom: Yep. (silent moment)
The Maker: Ooohhhh, so THAT’S how it works.
