The Boxer

It seems I do not respond well to being punched in the head.

I know. Weird, right?

My gym recently imported a boxing instructor straight from South America. Apparently, he is some kind of high-faluten professional fighter. Well whoop dee doo buddy. Don't you know you're not supposed to hit women? We have all kinds of crazy laws about that. Folks also get wildly bent out of shape when you beat children.

Yeah, we're really no fun at all.

As one might suspect, in boxing classes at my gym, we generally only hit the bags (just to be clear "bags" is not code for "each other's heads"). That concept was lost on the South American. He wandered around the room inspecting our combinations and shouting in heavy Spanglish. Then, for reasons probably related to Karma, he singled me out and ordered me to do the combination on his mitts.

This is where we come to the "oh crap" portion of my day. I can be quite outgoing at times, but I abhor being singled out and watched. My terror was interrupted by "Heet! Heet the hands!" as the South American nodded to his mitts. So I heet. And just after my second cross...right before the left hook...a mitt snapped out and whacked me upside the head. HARD.