Had an exhausting class last night – Mondays are always a bitch, because I’m coming back to it after a break.
We were doing the classic Monday cardio and technique class, three minutes of jump roping, then three minutes of bag work, one two, one two, then some pushups, back to ropes and bags, then pushups again, then, dear lord, we’re jump roping again, and then – 100 punches, GO!
Toward the end, I was keeping myself afloat by imagining that each time I jumped over the rope, I was jumping over a sword. I pictured one of the heroines from the first book I tried to sell a couple years ago – a sandfighter named Nalah – hopping over her teacher’s sword in the desert, again and again and again as her mentor taught her to jump over low sword swipes. I tried closing my eyes while jump roping, but that was a no-go. It fucked with my balance, and I almost keeled over.
Sword swipe. Jump. Jump. Again. Jump. Jump. Keep going. Jump. Jump. She’ll take your legs off. Jump.
I’m reading this really stupid fantasy book. Jump. Jump. And there’s this male hero who supposedly keeps himself in really good shape so he can act as a sexy consort in this sendentary royal court. Jump. Jump. But there’s never any scenes with him, like, exercising. Jump. Jump. Or sweating outside of bed. Jump. Jump.
Why don’t we see the hard fucking work? Outside of bed?
Jump. Jump.
Fiction writers are lazy. You teach people that being wicked tough is either really easy or some kind of sexy birthright.
Fuckers.
Jump. Jump. Oop. Bag work time.
ONE HUNDRED PUNCHES. GO!
Fuck.
