The gloves

After avoiding any kind of organized fitness class at the gym for almost a year, not wanting to look like all the other dumbies sweating beyond those glass walls, I finally got roped into a boxing bootcamp class.  My brother and sister-in-law were dedicated to it, and they said I would be able to handle it.  So, I went to that class, though I didn't have gloves.

I had to go ask the instructor if I could borrow some.  Luckily, that day there were a pair hanging around, and the instructor helped me strap them on and away I went.  Those were the stinkiest things I've ever had on my hands, and let's not forget I was still changing full, poopy diapers and wiping bottoms on toilets full of poo-poo and pee-pee all day long.  I thought I was going to puke during that class for a bunch of reasons, the smell being the main one.

When I got home, my husband was excited that I had attended the class, stuck it out until the end and desired to return a couple of days later.  I was proud to tell him about the experience, but I figured I'd just linger in the class a couple more times before committing. 

The next day, when my husband arrived home from work, he brought home a pair of hot pink gloves that seemed to glow.  Oh my goodness! They coordinated with my "Little Miss Bad" t-shirt perfectly! It was so silly to get so excited, but it was as if he somehow knew that those hot pink, glowy, over-the-top gloves would give me the extra push to want to go back to that class. 

You bet I went to class two days later.  I donned my favorite t-shirt, my pink shoes, my black stretchy pants and those hot pink gloves, and I hit that bag like I meant it. And I felt badass in a way I never have before.