Throw Like a Girl

Hey Kids.

The Burrito has taken up MMA. For those of you who aren’t hip to the acronym, MMA stands for Mixed Martial Arts. It’s a lovely way to get my sweat on, work out aggression, and develop a skill. It also secretly gratifies my inner desire to one day be the star of an action movie.

Sometimes I feel like a sexy cool bad ass a la Angelina Jolie in Tomb Radar.

There will be a moment when I’ll successfully throw some complicated twisty kick while lightly sweating in a boobalicious number. A tendril of hair will separate itself from my braid and land menacingly across my eye.  Then I’ll exhale with a sexual “ha!”

But, these moments are rare and almost always happens when nobody is around to watch.

Rather the norm is a picture more like this: I’ll be pitting out in what I’ve come to know as the lady triangle (under both boobs and inner crotch), bangs will be frizzed and dirty (creating a hallo for that fresh pimple on my forehead), the outfit will look less boobalicious and more gut-a-licious, and my trainer will be yelling “give it to me, hard” as I ram him in the man parts with a swift knee screaming “NO!”

THAT, my friends, is when a super hot dude will walk in to use the speed bag.

I’m like Buffy the Vampire Slayer, if Buffy’s real name was Blobby and she slayed unarmed carjackers.

To save myself from massive disappointment, I’ve given up on permanently summoning my inner Angelina.  Instead I’ve put focus on something I actually may be able to achieve: developing the skills to go tit for tat in this male dominated art.  I have actually gotten pretty good. Except for one consistent hitch in my training…

Up until a few weeks ago, I kept injuring my right wrist throwing a cross in boxing.  Simple classic adjustments were not helping.  So my trainer and I started taking off the gloves and breaking down what I was doing.   After a moment of assessment, the problem became clear: turns out I’m getting hurt because….I throw like a girl.

After all the kicking and punching and elbowing and kneeing and eye gouging and head butting and arm bars, nothing could save me from my femininity.

Apparently it only likes to rear it’s head when I need it least.

What a metaphor for my life.


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