There should be a place where people can go when the frustrations of life are just too much to handle and break things. Call them “freak out rooms” or “dish therapy,” I don’t care.
You put on a pair of safety goggles and break dishes, glasses, those stupid angel/gnome people knick knacks, whatever you want. You scream and cry and let it all out.
Then you could go back to the business of arguing with your insurance company over a claim code or being fussed at for doing carpool wrong or cutting the crust off the peanut butter and honey sandwiches with a better attitude.
But as far as know, no such place exits. But I think my friend Lizzy has found a really good option for me: boxing.
As it turns out, I like to hit things. I mean I REALLY like to hit things. This is kinda great. But also, in a overly-exuberant moment I signed up for the Little Rock half-marathon.
I need more than cardio to get ready for this. I need core strength. I have until March 2 to get some. I started training last week. I’m alternating running and boxing days.
So far, it just hurts. But that’s to be expected. It’s been a long time since I’ve done anything resembling a workout. This is not going to be painless.
Charlie asked me what I thought of boxing. I told him I had the eye of the tiger. And he better stay in line because by the time this is over, I might be able to take him.
He said he wouldn’t be worried until I started drinking raw eggs for breakfast and was able to catch a chicken. I told him he likely didn’t have to be worried, then, because I am not chasing a chicken through the yard.
I told my friends this exchange because it cracked me up, the vision of me running after a hen. They just stared at me blankly. They’d never.seen.Rocky. Now I feel old, uncool and out of shape.
Once the half-marathon is over, I’m definitely looking into this breaking plates situation.