Today is Thursday. I’m still sore from kickboxing on Monday. Well, kickboxing and self-defense. It’s interesting that I actually pay money for this kind of abuse. As certain people tell me, “The first ass you kick will be your own.” Well, consider mine kicked.

(Check out the poster hanging up at the kickboxing studio.)

If you haven’t jumped rope since elementary school, let me tell you, you’re missing out. Missing out on the most demoralizing and torturous experience you can have with a rope. I’m pretty sure they’ve changed it since I was a kid. Back then, it was a simple matter of jumping, jumping double time, skipping, crossing my arms, jumping on one leg, and so on.

But somewhere in the last twenty or so years, it’s undergone a horrifying transition. Nowadays, when you pick up that rope, they turn up the gravity and strap on lead shoes. It’s really not fair.

My new kicking targets have also gotten in on the fun that is called Hurting Me. When I’m holding for kicks, the straps give me big red welts that I’m pretty sure the actual kicks couldn’t generate, were I not using the targets at all.

And I won’t even talk about the wrenching that occurs when a slightly-more-toned-than-Gumby body tries to jab, kick, uppercut, cross, cross, uppercut, jab, cross, kick, kick, kick, switch kick, kick, kick, kick. Besides looking like a flailing idiot, it hurts a lot.

Oh, and then we get to do squat jump things, that involve doing a pushups and a high leaps into the air in rapid succession. For 90 seconds. I know 90 seconds doesn’t seem like a long time when you’re riding on a roller coaster or eating cookie dough, but 90 seconds of these squat jump thingies is a significantly worse situation.

And, if all this bone-crunching hilarity weren’t enough, I get to follow that hour of gasping and sweating with an hour of self-defense.

Self-defense is the heart rate of a small rodent. So far I’ve only taken an elbow to the head, a fingernail to the lip, and a kicking target to the nose, so I think I’m doing pretty well. And all those were while I was being the attacker.

Monday’s class was especially fun, because we got to practice a move from the Thriller dance, which is evidently also a way to get out of a headlock. Can’t beat that. (You can try, but you just can’t Beat It.)

So, all in all, Monday nights are when I get hit by a truck. A semi truck carrying nitroglycerine. It runs over me, and then backs up over me, and then runs over me again. Then, while I’m still trapped under the rear tires, the driver (who is sweaty and wearing no shoes) gets out and knees me in the teeth. Then he laughs at me for being so pathetic as to be stuck under the wheels of his truck, and he pinches me for good measure. And then gives me a really big paper cut and spits in my eye.

Then he backs over me again, flips me off, and drives away, but not before I hand him a wad of cash and tell him I’ll see him again next week.