Regular Kickboxing Class--not so "Regular".

When my karate jones got to be too much to handle, and I could feel my arms turning to mush, I went out in an active search of something martial-artsy to do. I found the Muay Thai class (previously blogged), but, before my first class, and, somewhat intimidated my the wall of man that is Moshik Keidar (http://il.youtube.com/watch?v=xovO1Eua618), I decided to try a regular "kickboxing" class with a woman named Keren. figured it would be similar to the conditioning/sparring classes at Masters Studios, per description of my tour guide at the gym where all these classes take place. I wasn't so fond of the floor--it is a fairly thick mat that makes balancing and pivoting difficult--but I was very, very taken with the real boxing ring in the room. And the heavy bags. I missed wailing on those to get out aggression.

I showed up early and started stretching. There was some kind of a karate class going on, but I couldn't really figure out what it was about. Some people were wearing belts ranging from white to black, some people were wearing no belts at all, and no one was in any kind of uniform. Not even matching t-shirts. It was a mixture of sweat pants and cargo shorts and t-shirts or tank tops. I was able to identify the teacher only because he was the black belt barking out orders. They seemed to be sparring, but no one seemed to be blocking. They all just kept getting hit, or running out of the way.

About 15 minutes after my class was due to start, and with a big group of us waiting and stretching, the karate class ended and two people walked in: a woman with a wild head of light brown frizzy curls who I guessed--correctly--was the teacher, and a DJ. Yes, a DJ. Anyone who knows me would have appreciated the look on my face. At Masters, I was often known to comment heavily on the "gay disco"style of music that Wendy likes to play pretty loud. Mike played the same CDs, but softly enough that I never felt the urge to say anything. I think he was about as fond of the music as I was.

The instructor, Keren, consulted with the DJ for a few minutes. I approached only to warn her that my Hebrew is still basic at best, but I'm a good mimic. I realized quickly that my knowledge of Hebrew, or any verbal communication at all, was irrelevant in this class. The music came on so loud that we would just watch Keren demonstrate a series of moves and then mimic them to the pounding beat of the music. She would start of with a jab. We would hop and jab for a minute or so. Then she would whistle like a construction worker to get our attention, and she would add a cross punch. Jab, cross. Facing the mirror, to the air. Then it would be jab, cross, straight punch, elbow. All while bouncing. The bouncing seemed to be a crucial part of the exercise. To gay disco. I wouldn't have been surprised to hear a dance-mix version of "It's Raining Men" while 10 or so hot guys in tighty-whiteys and angel wings danced out in perfect unison.

Bounce bounce jab, cross, straight punch, elbow, front kick, side kick...bounce bounce jab, cross, straight punch, elbow, front kick, side kick, stepping stool kick (repeat 10 times). Run in place as the music turns to a dance mix of something by Madonna. Left jab, left jab, right jab, right jab (repeat 10 times, advancing on each punch). Left jab, left jab, right jab, right jab, left upper cut, right upper cut, right knee, left stepping stool kick, right back kick (repeat 10 times, or stand there for a few rounds looking confused, joining in for the stepping stool kick and back kick, then go have some water).

This crazed combination of fighting moves and choreography makes for wimpy punches, kicks that wouldn't dent styrofoam, and one very, very confused American girl. Even wailing on the heavy bags is done to music, and very specifically choreographed. I go slower to hit with power until I can't lift my arms or bend my legs, until Keren bounces over and I go fast while she construction-worker-whistles her approval. It makes her happy, it helps me step outside my comfort zone, and my eardrums only want to bleed a little.

One day, after Muay Thai with Moshik, a regular kickboxing class was starting. A woman who has seen me in class stopped me to say hello. Moshik practically pulled me away, getting my attention by looking at me from--oh my God--even his eyebrows look like they could snap me in half. It's pretty hot. Really hot. But I digress.

I excused myself from the conversation with the woman from regular kickboxing and Moshik tapped me on the arm. He said in his deep, Israeli, I-can-kill-a-man-with-my-thumb voice: "Israeli girls like the kickboxing. You're not like them. You're one of us". And I thought: "Yeah, I'm with him". I'm one of somebody.

But he knows that I do the regular classes a few times a week. He knows I still have my yoga practice. He's seen me running through my Kung Fu and Karate forms. I want to be well-trained from all angles, and to constantly, constantly stay just outside my comfort zone and learn and learn and learn.

He'll shit eggrolls when he finds out I'm trying belly-dancing next week, though.