GET OUTTA MY WAY!

That's how my turbo-kick class started; its theme song, if you will. Yes, you read that correctly. After about 6 months of watching from afar (a.k.a. the elliptical), I decided to bite the bullet and try the cardio-kickboxing class offered by my neighborhood gym. It looked intense, but seemed to require slightly less coordination than the confounding zumba classes I attended with a friend in the fall. And besides, with all the resolutioners clogging up the gyms this time of year, this would be as good a time as any to start, because surely there'd be other first-timers there. And with so many newbies, they'd have to explain some of the moves, right?

Wrong. I listened to the Pilates instructor give the class before mine a five-minute lecture on how to properly stretch out your hamstring, but as soon as the mats were rolled up and we took our places on the over-crowded floor, the music started blasting and away we went. In a matter of seconds, I found myself frantically trying to mimic the seriously buff (and overly aggressive) instructor; kicking, punching, and weaving my way through one seriously high-energy workout.

She was calling out instructions: "Hook! Jab, cut!" and "Kick it back! Knee it up!" and I had no idea what any of it meant. I was all: monkey-see, monkey-do. When the percussive song "Get outta my way" (with lyrics along the same vein) came on, she roared, "Windmill!", and began flailing her arms and legs, kicking and punching and hitting whatever imaginary obstacle was in her way. While she looked formidable, I looked like a damn fool.

I came home and immediately looked up the different punches. I'm doing my homework on this because I plan on going back tomorrow (and because I don't want to hurt myself). The workout was hard but fun; I can see how people swear it's addicting, but I can also see how the numbers of participants will thin out dramatically in the next few weeks. I'm in pretty good shape (even though I don't look it right now) and was able to hang; I didn't get all of the moves, but I was able to keep moving. I can't say the same for the gaggle of wheezing, middle-aged Hispanic ladies behind me; one was halfheartedly punching the air while trying to talk on her cell phone, and another disappeared into the locker room after about 10 minutes.

Is this something new and different for me? Most definitely. Was I sore the next day? You betcha. Will I stick with it? Schedule permitting, yes! And next time, all you insincere resolutioners, you had better GET OUTTA MY WAY, cuz I'm kicking butts and taking names!