I'll Never Be a Rockette

A previous blog entry describes me as directionally challenged.  Another one brings my good sense into question.  (REMINDER:  Don’t remove any clothing while using the treadmill.)  And you know I have space issues, as in:  I’m here/the tree’s there/avoid it/BANG!  My latest admission is something that just came to the forefront recently.  I can’t kick.

This is news to me.  When I was a cheerleader, I could kick.  Just what have you been doing in the intervening 40 years, you ask?  And I answer, Definitely not honing my kicking skills.

This came to light with my recent membership in a health spa.  It offers classes designed to raise your heart rate and humiliate your psyche with the hope that you’ll continue to pay big bucks to avoid remaining the ungainly klutz you prove yourself to be.

One of the classes is called BODYCOMBAT.  It combines kicks and punches most commonly used by—I’m only guessing here—ninjas.  I’m not a ninja nor will I ever be a ninja.  And this is why:  I can’t do two things at once.  Ninjas can sneak and punch.  Ninjas can spy and kick.  Ninjas can go in for the kill while maintaining their center of gravity low to the ground and disappear into thin air before their opponents gasp their final breaths. 

Sometimes I remember to breathe while kicking or punching . . . but usually not.  And, if reminded to do so, one of two things happens:  1) I kick wildly with the wrong leg, or 2) I punch wildly with the wrong fist.  When the instructor tells me to tuck in my chin, keep my fist next to my cheek, and “left/right/jab/jab/uppercut/kick, those are more directions than I can handle and I stop to simply . . . breathe. 

I took karate once, never progressing beyond the white belt because I refused to yell HIYAHHHHHH!  But even so, punching came back to me much like people claim riding a bike does—well, except for the random flailing and the short-term attention span which results in not knowing what goes where, when. 

The kicks are a different story.  If someone could read me like a book, the page would read, “You look pathetic!  Get that leg up, girl!  Snap it!  Don’t be so wimpy!  No, your other left!”

But I’m trying, and that’s what counts.  While I’m admittedly kick-challenged, I have other strengths. 

Give me a moment, and I’ll think of them.