There was something in the punch

Readers, I'm positively giddy to announce a new romance is blossoming in the House of Grammarian. The new object of my affection: kickboxing.

Yesterday I took my first kickboxing class, and sweet Mary was it amazing. The first 20 minutes we did such horrific things as jump-squats, jump-push-ups -- an absurdly punishing activity that demands one jump as high as one can and then immediately do a push-up -- and bear-walking. What the latter accomplishes other than total embarrassment, I have no idea. You know your instructor is a sadist when you feel grateful to sprint around the room or run up and down the stairs.

After those 20 minutes, the fun began. I donned my boxing gloves and approached my target: a well-worn punching bag in the corner. Now, those of you who work with me or have worked with me know I can be -- oh, what's the word -- rageful at times. I accept this as part of my personality, and generally no one gets hurt. But Lord a'mighty, I didn't realize quite how much rage I'd had stored up until I started punching.

It started with a moderately strong left hook followed by a clumsy roundhouse kick. I stopped and thought, "My, my. That was awkward, but damn did it feel good." And then, I struck again. And again. Each blow seemed to simultaneously satisfy and provoke more aggression. By the time the instructor called for us to stop, my arms were shaking and my shirt was soaked with sweat, and I was positively euphoric -- and more relaxed than I'd been in ages.