I’ve made it though the first week of kickboxing. And by “made it,” I mean, “limped through like a seven-legged hamster.” Today I experienced the unique pleasure of having my triceps cramp up. This has never happened to me before, even when I was doing dips using a chair.

I attended the morning class today, and I’m so glad I did. It was half the size of the evening one, and I am a better morning exerciser anyway. I heard rumors of the evening class skipping rope and being so crowded that people were wanging each other with their ropes. I struck a deal with Companion so that I can go to the morning class when Franny is here. That way I can put her to bed.

Supa is taking the morning class right now, but she said she’ll switch over to evenings when Franny is gone to keep me company. That will make the sardine world a little better.

Printed on a tag, inside my glove:

WARNING: Boxing, kickboxing, and martial arts are contact sports. This product is manufactured with care and craftsmanship to provide a degree of protection, but is not warranted to prevent injury. Users of this product are subject to injury, including death. The user, therefore, must assume full responsibility for all risk of injuries.

Oh dag. Maybe I should go back to smoking and drinking. I won’t look as cute in my pants, but, hey, I’ll be drunk. And just as dead later. Well, I have all weekend to think about it, anyway.