Between smacking strike pads and my labored breathing, my coach has half hummed, then broke out into song, to the Justin Bieber classic, “Baby.” I’ve wiped my face, wet with sweat, on equally wet shoulders between dodging, blocking, and getting tangled up in the coach’s grabby feet to Anne-Marie’s “2002.” Akon’s “Smack That (feat. Eminem)” has been the soundtrack to trying to spar, which, at least half the time, has ended up with me getting gently wiped out on the ring floor. However hard those three-minute rounds are, however inept my movements are on any day, I always end up laughing. I am completely hooked.
A week after I shuffled around the ring in a standing fetal position while being battered from all directions, my coach left for vacation. “Have fun!” I said, “I’ll be stronger when you get back.” He nodded, deadpan, crushing my unrealistic dream.
His estimation of my abilities is likely accurate, but given that I’ve started Muay Thai at 39 with zero previous martial arts experience, it’s equally optimistic for my coach to expect me to understand reality. Besides, where would the fun be in that?