cage on the far end, and a big blue squishy mat covering the entire floor. Several punching bags with
Everlast
emblazoned down the sides hang by meaty chains from the ceiling, and five or six other bags with black plastic bases—presumably filled with water for stability—are scattered about the mat.
As I scan the room, I decide it looks friendly and unthreatening. This won’t be so hard.
“Hello,” says a Hawaiian-looking thirty-something man from behind the office counter. “I’m Rudy. First time?”
“Yes, I called earlier today.”
Several women trail in behind us and wave hello to Rudyas he hands us the necessary waivers. With their idle chitchat and playful banter, they seem so comfortable. My mood perks up even more. I whisper to Kit, “This will be fun.”
Kit frowns as she reads the form. “‘Possibility of injury that could lead to paralysis or death.’”
I snatch the paper from her hand and initial it. “They have to say that. For insurance reasons. Heck, walking to the mailbox could result in paralysis or death.”
“No, it couldn’t.”
“You could trip on a stone and fling yourself into oncoming traffic. I saw it happen once in a Lifetime movie.”
“Are you serious?”
No.
“Yes.” I hand Rudy our waivers.
“Grab a ball.” He points at a rack built above the mirrors, lined with large exercise balls. “Then find a seat anywhere on the mat. All I ask is that you leave your cell phone, gum, shoes, and worries off the mat. And you might want to take off your rings.”
We tuck them safely in our purses.
The room isn’t crowded, maybe a dozen or so women, varying in age, size, and shape. Like copycats, Kit and I each grab a ball and plop down on the mat, which feels cool on my feet. A girl about my age sits beside me. She wraps a long yellow strap around her wrists, weaving it between her fingers just like I’ve seen UFC fighters do on TV. She throws her neck from side to side and I hear a couple of pops.
In front of me, another girl with long dark legs and hair to match pumps out twenty push-ups like she’s weightless. I dare look behind me at a third woman, who raps punches at a hanging bag with the rhythm and speed of an expert Morse coder.
Good Lord. Maybe this won’t be so easy. “Now I’m nervous,” I whisper to Kit. “You?”
She looks at me with concrete fear in her eyes. “I already peed my pants.”
Rudy bows with hands at his side before stepping onto the mat. His voice echoes throughout the room as he says, “How are we all doing?”
Several of the women reply.
Rudy says to Kit and me, “Welcome.”
“Thanks,” we answer in unison with uncertain voices.
“Your names again?”
“I’m Lanie Howard and this is Kit Reese.”
“Welcome, Howie.”
“Excuse me?”
“Everyone in here gets a nickname. Yours will be Howie.” He points at the woman with the long legs. “That’s T-Bird. Next to her is Peanut. She’s Avatar, and never mind. You’ll figure the rest out. Let’s get started.”
“Wait. What’s her nickname?” I point at Kit.
“Kit, right?”
“Yes.”
“How about Kitty-litter?” he says with a harmless chuckle.
Her face drops.
“Perfect.” I laugh.
She rolls her eyes at me and mouths,
I’ll kill you
.
Rudy steps away and fiddles with his iPod. “Pour Some Sugar on Me” by Def Leppard blares through the speakers. “It’s eighties day.”
“Hold on to your panties, everyone. I’m coming,” a woman yells over the music.
We turn toward the entrance and see an older lady rushinside. She’s dressed in a cream velour sweat suit with hair swept up in a tightly pinned bun and a set of blue pearls bouncing around her neck.
“Jesus Christ, the old people in this city need to learn how to drive.” She tosses her oversized Louis Vuitton bag onto the bench and with a quick unzip sloughs off her jacket, revealing her jeweled
I kick like a girl
black T-shirt. She slips out of her leopard-print ballet-style flats and
Everlast
emblazoned down the sides hang by meaty chains from the ceiling, and five or six other bags with black plastic bases—presumably filled with water for stability—are scattered about the mat.
As I scan the room, I decide it looks friendly and unthreatening. This won’t be so hard.
“Hello,” says a Hawaiian-looking thirty-something man from behind the office counter. “I’m Rudy. First time?”
“Yes, I called earlier today.”
Several women trail in behind us and wave hello to Rudyas he hands us the necessary waivers. With their idle chitchat and playful banter, they seem so comfortable. My mood perks up even more. I whisper to Kit, “This will be fun.”
Kit frowns as she reads the form. “‘Possibility of injury that could lead to paralysis or death.’”
I snatch the paper from her hand and initial it. “They have to say that. For insurance reasons. Heck, walking to the mailbox could result in paralysis or death.”
“No, it couldn’t.”
“You could trip on a stone and fling yourself into oncoming traffic. I saw it happen once in a Lifetime movie.”
“Are you serious?”
No.
“Yes.” I hand Rudy our waivers.
“Grab a ball.” He points at a rack built above the mirrors, lined with large exercise balls. “Then find a seat anywhere on the mat. All I ask is that you leave your cell phone, gum, shoes, and worries off the mat. And you might want to take off your rings.”
We tuck them safely in our purses.
The room isn’t crowded, maybe a dozen or so women, varying in age, size, and shape. Like copycats, Kit and I each grab a ball and plop down on the mat, which feels cool on my feet. A girl about my age sits beside me. She wraps a long yellow strap around her wrists, weaving it between her fingers just like I’ve seen UFC fighters do on TV. She throws her neck from side to side and I hear a couple of pops.
In front of me, another girl with long dark legs and hair to match pumps out twenty push-ups like she’s weightless. I dare look behind me at a third woman, who raps punches at a hanging bag with the rhythm and speed of an expert Morse coder.
Good Lord. Maybe this won’t be so easy. “Now I’m nervous,” I whisper to Kit. “You?”
She looks at me with concrete fear in her eyes. “I already peed my pants.”
Rudy bows with hands at his side before stepping onto the mat. His voice echoes throughout the room as he says, “How are we all doing?”
Several of the women reply.
Rudy says to Kit and me, “Welcome.”
“Thanks,” we answer in unison with uncertain voices.
“Your names again?”
“I’m Lanie Howard and this is Kit Reese.”
“Welcome, Howie.”
“Excuse me?”
“Everyone in here gets a nickname. Yours will be Howie.” He points at the woman with the long legs. “That’s T-Bird. Next to her is Peanut. She’s Avatar, and never mind. You’ll figure the rest out. Let’s get started.”
“Wait. What’s her nickname?” I point at Kit.
“Kit, right?”
“Yes.”
“How about Kitty-litter?” he says with a harmless chuckle.
Her face drops.
“Perfect.” I laugh.
She rolls her eyes at me and mouths,
I’ll kill you
.
Rudy steps away and fiddles with his iPod. “Pour Some Sugar on Me” by Def Leppard blares through the speakers. “It’s eighties day.”
“Hold on to your panties, everyone. I’m coming,” a woman yells over the music.
We turn toward the entrance and see an older lady rushinside. She’s dressed in a cream velour sweat suit with hair swept up in a tightly pinned bun and a set of blue pearls bouncing around her neck.
“Jesus Christ, the old people in this city need to learn how to drive.” She tosses her oversized Louis Vuitton bag onto the bench and with a quick unzip sloughs off her jacket, revealing her jeweled
I kick like a girl
black T-shirt. She slips out of her leopard-print ballet-style flats and
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