06/29/2012

Today, I decided to do kickboxing for the first time in over a month.  I had to sweep the garage, first, because there were all these dead beetles in there, and if I stepped on one, I’d probably die.

It’s not because we’re weird, gross people, either.  We live in the forest, so there’s a lot of insect life.  The beetles seem to come into the garage to die.  There were no live ones.  If I’d seen a live one, I probably would have died.

Anyway, I swept the garage and did a bit of cleaning, to clear out the area.  Then I went inside and did a half-hour on the bike to warm up.

I finally got to kickboxing.  I wrapped my hands (I’m so responsible) and set my iPod to play “Dragon Rider” on repeat.

I got about five minutes into it when I rolled my ankle and had to stop.  You can’t really kickbox with a sprained ankle.  It becomes just “boxing,” and that’s no fun.

The fucked up part, though, is that I enjoyed it.  There was about 10 seconds where I didn’t, but then the endorphins hit and I fucking enjoyed  it.

I am a sick, sick person.  This is not normal.  Pain is supposed to be a bad thing.  Pain is your body telling you that something is wrong.  But now the wires are so fucking crossed and fucked up that I don’t get the message. 

I’m going to limp to bed.  And wonder (not for the last time) what the fuck is wrong with me.