Tuesday, March 11, 2014

Taking punches

I did it, you guys. I tried to branch out and find my own little group of pals in Rochester. I did what every cool, relaxed, spontaneous gal does and thoroughly researched my new adventure before I headed out on my journey.

See, I needed to find something "Pharon-y" in this town. Geo got me all started by finding this fairly dope brewery blocks from our house that reminds of Minneapolis, and I realized that I was ready to try and get this hot piece out there. You know, really make a name for myself in this town. So I googled things I like. It was not super amazing. I looked up book clubs that are just a front for gossip and drinking, random karaoke nights and meat raffles and places to meet crazy people while waiting for a bus. I came up with virtually nothing.

Then I looked up kickboxing. I was mad, frustrated and had just finished eating a brick of Costco cheese, so it seemed appropriate. Now, I don't like kickboxing because it's, like, a good workout or anything. (UGH. I promise not to bore you with a workout story, because there is NOTHING MORE BORING THAN A WORKOUT STORY.) No, I like it because I seem to have a knack for it and I only know two other people who even remotely enjoy it. I may not be good at it, but I'm better at it than 99% of the people I know because they have never even tried it.

Anyway, so I google "kickboxing in Rochester" and actually found a place called 9Round. Everything about it screamed "PHARON - THIS IS FOR YOU." It was my chance to find my niche.

So I spent a few hours watching training videos to prep myself before I left to try out the place. I put on my best/only workout clothes, packed up my wrist wraps and boxing gloves that were covered in dust, told Geo not to wait up for me and headed out in search of Pharon.

I got lost on the way there. That is not surprising. But what IS surprising is that I still found the place without GPS. It was like I was drawn to it. A shining beacon of familiarity in the vast wasteland that is a city I do not understand.

I went in and was greeted by this crazy-fit girl who wasn't the least bit judgmental when my hip inadvertently knocked brochures off a table. She seemed extra cool. And even though it looked like she never saw the bottom of a wine bottle on a Tues. night, I liked her a lot. She explained this workout to me, and was impressed by the fact that I could wrap my own wrists. I was slowly slipping back into the gentle embrace of Myself.

Then the workout started. It was the hardest effing thing I've done in my entire life. I thought I was going to puke. But I actually got through it because I felt so miserably aware that this was just for me. I knew these moves, even if I couldn't do them. And despite the gut-heaving pain I was in, I loved every second of it. Oh, 9Round, you GET ME. You soooo get me.

Ah yes, it would have been the perfect self-affirming experience. Until the end. I was nauseous, dehydrated and on a little bit of a workout high, so of course THAT'S when they hit me with the sign-up details.

It was a BILLION dollars to join, AND I'd need to sign a year-long contract in blood, even though I have no intention of being here this time next year. It was THE WORST. Oh, and plus? They were like "We'll need $100 so we can give you wrist wraps and gloves," and I was all "Hey, bros, no prob. I already have those things, so let's just go ahead and waive that, right?" And they were all "Silly rabbit, that's not how this works."

So now I refuse to join this delectable haven because it literally is the most expensive workout I will have ever had. And considering the fact that I also just polished off a Costco tube of summer sausage, I just don't think I deserve that. Oh well, at least I've got the brewery!

1 comment:

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