A work colleague of mine has started training for a charity white collar boxing event. He’s thrown himself into an intensive programme of gym classes, sparring and weights. The big day is less than a month away and he’s truly a man on a mission. Personally, I don’t understand these men who hit their forties and take up sports when they should really know better. It’s all a bit sad don’t you think?
Today he brought in a pair of boxing gloves as he has a sparring session tonight after work. After impressing us with how many one handed press ups he could do, he then produced the gloves and handed them to me. ‘I want you to hit me as hard as you can in the stomach,’ he cheerily announced, keen to display the benefits of six trillion sit ups a day. ‘Er….sure,’ I replied. I wasn’t at all sure.
If I’ve ever worn a pair of boxing gloves before, then I can’t remember. I’m proud to say I’ve never thrown a punch in anger and would run a mile in the opposite direction were a brawl to break out. It took me the best part of five minutes to put on the gloves, gnawing at the velcro straps with my teeth, as my colleague patiently looked on, with tensed abs. If that’s what people with abs do. I wouldn’t know.
Finally ready, I launched a tentative jab towards his rock hard six pack. I didn’t want to hurt him, after all. He didn’t bat an eyelid, causing me to put more force into the next punch. Nothing. I looked him in the eye to see him smiling back amiably. Okay, I thought to myself, to an imaginary Rocky soundtrack in my head. It’s time to up the ante. My manly reputation is on the line here, there are people watching.
Summoning up my inner Raging Bull, I drew my right fist back and unleashed a haymaker of epic proportions. Surely that muscular missile would cause him to double over in agony, the wind knocked out of his sails. I was ready to rumble, to bring the pain, unleash hell and stuff like that. He smirked at me. Smirked, no less. I gritted my teeth and unloaded one last blow, putting every fibre of my being into it.
At which point, a shard of agony roared up my right arm and into my shoulder. ‘Are you okay?’ he enquired as I winced in pain and fought back the tears. ‘Yes I’m fine,’ I lied, convinced I had broke my thumb. I gingerly removed the gloves and retreated to my desk, vowing never to indulge in pugilism ever again. My feeble fists had been overcome by a washboard abdomen. I looked down glumly at my own rather less Herculean midriff.
I’ll stick to running in future. The funny thing is, I’ve run with my work colleague before. He’s as fit as a fiddle but when it comes to running, he collapses in a heap after 3 miles, whereas I can plod on forever. We are both fit but have different kinds of fitness. His relates to physique and strength whereas I have stamina and endurance. I guess it’s a case of different horses for different courses.
Today taught me a lesson. Have you ever set out to hurt someone emotionally but ended up only causing pain to yourself? I know I have, and still do. We need to let go of those petty grudges and move on. They say revenge is a dish best served cold, but its best to scrape those leftovers into the bin and start afresh. Otherwise you will end up with a badly bruised ego. And possibly a broken thumb.
Have you ever thrown a punch in anger?
Do you struggle to let grudges go and move on?