Pull My Finger

Last week I attempted to find my inner Olympian forcing myself to Fatness First and working out every day. On the Thursday at lunch I decided to do a boxercise class. I've done boxercise plenty of times through my outdoor exercise group so I was pretty confident about completing the class. I always get a little nervous though about doing group classes at gyms like Fitness First because all the participants usually look like they've walked off the set of Baywatch. They're chiselled jawed and MacLean's teeth shining with their designer butts and protein enriched water. These are people who actually love to exercise. They do marathons for fun and cycle interstate for the scenery. These people weren't born; they sprinted out of their mothers' wombs instead. Me on the other hand arrived two weeks late. I sat in my mother's womb refusing to budge. No way Jose was I coming out of my own accord. I was quite comfortable where I was; all creature comforts and room service to boot. Why would I move? 27 hours it took to coax me into the world. Once I did get out, I just sat there…..for a long time. I didn't walk til I was 3. Mum always says that I was the sweetest baby; I never cried. She fails to mention that I never talked either. I would give children Omen like stares who attempted to interact with me in the sandpit. That or I would try to eat them. I was continually in trouble for biting everyone. But I still never uttered a word or cried a tear. When I turned 4 and continued to maintain my vow of silence, Mum and Dad thought I might be deaf and had my ears checked. I could hear perfectly. I was labelled "shy" and put back in the sandpit. I didn't really start talking until school when I realised that if I was to eat, I'd have to ask for food. Even still my use of the spoken word was quite rare. Usually I resorted to plain old-fashioned violence like the time I jumped on and broke Andrew Brior's arm when he took my muesli bar…funnily enough in the sandpit. No one ever took my food again. I did get used to the sound of my voice over time, but still resorted to the label "shy" when it was convenient such as requests by mother to join the church choir or my father to play rugby. All up I was lazy and have continued to embrace this attribute well into adulthood. I will subconsciously avoid any type of exertion whether it be social, physical or emotional. I'm like a walking piece of kryptonite…. that is if I can be bothered walking. So going to do boxercise with a class of supermen and superwomen was quite daunting.

The class was being run by Frederick, a German instructor, who looked quite like his Van Trapp namesake in the Sound of Music. All he required was a pork pie hate and some lederhosen made out of curtains.

Frederick: Find a partner now! Hurry up!

The edelweiss burst into flames as soon as Frederick opened his mouth. He instructed like he was declaring war. I kept expecting schnells and whistles to come marching out of his mouth. I needed to find someone feeble. I searched the room. A lanky grey haired chap approached. He would have been in his late 50s and didn't look as if he'd just finished climbing Mt Everest for something to do over the weekend. He seemed perfect.

"G'day mate….u got a partner?" He had one of those nasal Australian accents, which resembled that of a cockatoo and belonged in 1955. A bygone era where men were cobbers and women were sheilas and everyone was Caucasian; a time when all things were "you beaut" and "too right" and "don't spare the horses Charlie". His name was Bob and he handed me the boxing gloves. I was first up. Great.


Frederick: Right: 100 high punches! Go!

100? I'd never done more than 50 and usually we worked our way up to 50 after a few sets; never straight into it.

Bob: Lets Go Mate.

Everyone was a pro, punching like they were lightweight champions. I thought I was doing reasonably well until…..

Frederick: Who taught you to punch like that? You look like a chicken trying to fly.

I think I was up to punch number 57 somewhere between perspiration and exhaustion when Frederick introduced instruction by humiliation.

Frederick: Stop flapping your vings and punch from zee shoulder.

I thought I was punching from the shoulder. I kept going hoping Frederick would move onto his next victim. He did not.

Frederick: No you are still doing it vong. Let me show you.

The whole class had now stopped and was looking at me. As Frederick demonstrated how not to have wings, I could feel their discombobulating gaze of pity strip away my dignity garment by garment. Like a schizophrenic off his medication, I could hear all their thoughts. Get out! Leave! Why are you wasting our time? You can't box! What on earth are you wearing? It reminded me of the time in Grade 3 when I was put into Mrs Sainsbury's class for those who were mathematically gifted. I was surprised as anyone else to find myself in this class and soon proved my unworthiness by completing a long division, whereby I concluded that 45 divided by 3 equalled 12. Like Frederick, Mrs Sainsbury employed similar skills of humiliation. She made me stand in front of the class and do the long division on the blackboard in front of the class where I continued to get it wrong and she continued to apply humiliation. The class burst out into laughter and I burst into tears running out of the room. To this day I can't do long division.

I thought of employing a similar reaction to Frederick but I couldn't really apply a 6 year old's solution to a 33 year old's problem. I grinned. I bore. My second round of 100 was far more wingless. Apart from the odd flutter, I managed to strike my way through the first session with Rocky precision. Then it was Bob's turn. Holding onto the pads and blocking the punches of your partner is usually the easier part of the session. Blocking Bob's punches was like trying to stop the Titanic sinking….impossible. Bob may have looked feeble but his punch was nuclear.

He kept going and going lunging into me. I kept falling backwards in horror with the pads protecting my face hoping to avoid a lifetime of reconstructive surgery. Anything but my face….or my shoulder…or my arms. Did Bob think I was his ex-wife perhaps? Bang, bang, bang, bang! Was Bob an axe murderer? Bang bang bang bang! Was Bob one of my ex's in disguise? All these thoughts were running through my mind when my left wedding finger slipped out of the pad and connected with Bob's that there right fist….going at say….5000 k's an hour.

My finger flung backwards as if it was competing in the flip diving division of the Beijing Olympics. Yes it hurt but I was determined not to draw any further attention to myself.


Bob: You right mate?

Putting on my Doris Days, I smiled and said: " No I'm fine." I picked up my gloves and finished the session. My eyes were watering so much from the pain by the end that I'm sure I looked like someone who had just attended a funeral. It didn't help that Bob shook the injured hand after class. Thanks Bob. Perhaps I was his ex-wife in a former life.

I left the class examining my finger, which now resembled my big toe.

Frederick: Vat have you done now?

Frederick grabbed my hand and started examining my finger. In fact he pulled my finger. Who was this guy? Old Mother Hubbard?

Me: Awe that hurts.

Frederick: It is not broken. Just badly sprained.

Me: Thanks

Frederick: You need to ice it.

Me: Ok

Frederick: Do not put any pressure on it for a week.

Me: I'll drink to that.

Frederick: And please come back to my class. You are a good boxer.

I smiled and he walked off. No Floreine Frederick I thought, I'm never stepping back into your class again mate. In an hour I'd been humiliated and abused, beaten up and finally had my finger snapped in front of my eyes by a demented digger who thought I was his ex-Mrs. And all in the name of exercise. Pull the other one…it plays Buy Another Reebok. Broken finger, broken foot….it's all the same as far I'm concerned and as a result I'm heading back to that sandpit and sitting on my arse biting anyone who takes my food.


Happy Olympics Everyone!

C