Tested

Kickboxing on Monday kicked my butt -- I mean my gluteus maximus (not sure if this is the right spelling. As a writer, you would think I'd have a dictionary handy. . . ) is really sore, not sat-too-long-on-the-bicycle-seat sore, but a deeper hey-I-didn't-know-I-had-muscles-there kind of sore.

I never planned on going to a 6 a.m. class on Tuesdays. I work nights, so Tuesday is my day to sleep in. Except for today. I decided to try instructor's choice, which turned out to be a bad choice on my part.

When I say bad, I am not dissing the class -- it was a good class. It was bad because, for the first time, I wanted to quit. Grab my water bottle, bundle up. Exit stage right. Go back to bed.

I am used to grabbing equipment before class begins, but there was no equipment today. Just what God gave me. And I prayed that what was ahead of me was not a glorified elementary school gym class. I was seized by flashbacks -- of dodge ball, of running in place, of chin ups and suicide drills.

Then the music came on, the warm up began, and we started -- jumping rope with no rope, partial jumping jacks morphing into to full jumping jacks and back to jumping rope, repeating that series non-stop for what seemed like a thousand times.

The point was to work at a steady pace, keep my heart rate controlled. There was no friggin' way I could do that. I was dying. (really, not so much an exaggeration).

I had to stop. Everything was tightening up. The mind and body did not want to do this this morning. Then we added jumping jacks and a kickboxing jab. Again for eternity. Everything was slowing down. Everything was telling me to run to the bathroom, make an excuse, sneak out. DO NOT CONTINUE.

Except for that little voice that said, simply, No. Go slow if you have to. Do three , then rest. Do anything you need to do to not quit. I knew I would absolutely hate myself if I walked out.

So I carried on. 45 grueling minutes later -- tire runs, squats, push ups, working my abs from my legs up -- I was done.

Not gonna lie to you -- I hated it. But I felt good. I did not quit.

Now, a few hours later, the knees are grinding-- making a noise like I am walking on crushed rocks when I go up the stairs. That was the reason I gave up the treadmill --I could walk for miles, but could not climb the stairs to get out of my workout room. Nothing I have done so far has aggravated the knees, except this.

Maybe I can modfy it somehow. Maybe I will get used to it.

Dare I say it -- I'll see what happens next Tuesday.