The unexpected benefits of the one-two punch

I almost didn't make it to class that night . . . He threw punches right at my face. I kept my hands up to protect myself, but it took all my strength to stop the blows. I focused every ounce of my attention on blocking his fists as they came barrelling towards me. He hit hard: He was the same height as me, but at least 50 pounds heavier—all muscle. And I was still weak, recovering from recently giving birth. I wasn't ready to go. The roast chicken was just finished and straight out of the oven. The kids weren't even fed yet and my husband was still at work. There was no way I could go, even if I wanted to. My phone buzzed: a message from my husband: “Are you going? I'll meet you there to pick up the kids . . . Don't worry, I'll feed them later. . . I don't want you to miss it because of me.” It was my turn now. I finally got my opportunity to hit him. I used all my strength, but there wasn't much. I wasn't very coordinated either: Punching someone's face is just not something that comes naturally. Left fist jab, right fist power. . . those were the instructions, I remembered. All my power was barely enough to make him flinch. He took them though. He let me hit him and I gained confidence in my ability. I didn't stop for a full minute. I rushed up the stairs to change, leaving the golden chicken, half-carved on the cutting board. I yelled down the stairs for the kids to get ready to leave. I packed up the baby and into the van we piled. I was going to be late, but that's better than missing it entirely. I've met him before; a polite, older gentleman. . . it seemed. He used to come to class with his son, but it had been a while since I'd seen the teenage kid. We've exchanged polite pleasantries in the past, but we've never really spoken more than that. Nevertheless, it was obvious that he was strong and that I would never stand a chance. My husband arrived shortly after I did. He ushered the kids out of the gym and left me there for my class, alone. It was glorious to finally have my time to myself. My day was stress-filled as a surgical resident’s usually is. The worst part, however, was the ongoing management and fall-out of an unfair and discriminatory performance evaluation against me. Each day was leaving me more deflated, exhausted, and defeated than the last. I wasn't really in the mood for a conditioning night at the gym, but I figured the physical activity would be good for me. After I finished my round of punches, he started at me again. This time he added in the elbow strike to the face. Here was my chance! He was stronger than me, but in his older age, he lacked the coordination to properly execute the move. He was slowing down with each change of motion. The blows were not as hard. If I wanted to, I could have overpowered him in this weakness. But I didn't. I let him finish. The conditioning circuit was a challenge, even after being back at the gym for almost two months: 15 stations, one minute each, with a 15-second break in between. My heart was racing but I was starting to feel better. I'm glad my husband encouraged me to go. . . this is what I needed. Another minute was over. I had gained confidence after seeing my opponent's weakness. It was my turn. The elbow strike to the face was challenging, but I adapted quickly. Now it was him who almost couldn't keep up with me. Left jab, right power, left elbow to the face. Harder and harder each time. More speed. More power. I didn't even see my opponent anymore. Instead, I imagined hitting the face of the person responsible for all the stress and anguish I've been through. It felt good. . . . No, it felt exhilarating! One minute was not long enough. When the circuit was over, it was time for some partner work. My usual partner was another woman similar in age to me. We met up to start the drill. However, we were separated because she was much shorter than me. For this drill, we needed to be similar heights. I was matched up with the older gentleman. I worried that I wouldn't be able to match his strength well, but the instructor then handed out the hand pads and explained the drill. One last drill: him first, then me. Left fist jab, right fist power, left elbow to the face, right elbow straight up under the chin. Yes! One more power blow to really drive it home. I held the pads for my opponent while he struggled with the coordination of the drill. I spoke the moves aloud to help him with his concentration. I wasn't vulnerable anymore. I had the power. I gave him the pads after his minute was over. Now it was my turn. With each successive drill I gained power and confidence. My minute was over. My fists were sore, my elbows raw. I had won the fight. The punching drills were challenging, leaving my arms tired and sore by the end. Regardless, I felt great. I dropped the pads to the floor and faced my older, male partner. We shook hands and bowed towards each other. I thanked him, and him me. "You've got quite the power and coordination," he said to me. "Great job." In my head, that jerk, the one with that smug, "I have power over you," look on his face as he handed down my unfair assessment, stood no chance. With each impact my body made with the pads I imagined him struggling and reeling in pain. I saw his face, dejected, battered, and bruised. YOU HAVE NO POWER OVER ME. I AM STRONGER THAN YOU. YOU WILL NOT DEFEAT ME. As I left the changeroom and started my walk back home, I felt a small amount of guilt imagining myself beating someone else to the ground. But I quickly shook it off. Anyone who uses their superior position, power, and authority over another person really deserves what’s coming to them, even if it's only in my imagination. The mental and emotional release from my workout and street fighting drills were exactly what I needed to release my stress. I was thankful that I scrambled to come to class. And in my victory, I went home to eat my cold roast chicken. It was delicious—and maybe best served cold.

The unexpected benefits of the one-two punch

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