decision

I started boxing several years ago. I just walked into a class one day looking for something that would make me sweat. It was a 5:30 class; it was really just opportune timing. I’ve always gotten a rush from boldly walking into something new. “You mean you just moved out there, not knowing anyone?” It’s a courage/pride thing, I guess. My dad used to compliment us as kids for ordering adventurous things on a menu—“good order, Melly,” he’d say with a wink. Even in small ways boldness was rewarded. I responded by insisting on sleep-away camp at age eight, alligator appetizers on vacation in Florida, and getting on my first overseas flight at age 20—headed for India.

I had no idea when I walked into that gym, but boxing fits me. In fact, that gym changed my life, in more ways than I would have anticipated and probably more than I realize, still. Boxing is contradictions—developing new instincts that overpower fear. You move in for the pain, but can never fail to protect yourself. But, when a punch lands you realize that’s exactly what you’ve done—dropped that left hand. And although those hands get all the attention—powdered, wrapped, and gloved in bright red—the successful fighter knows it’s all about the feet. If you can find balance in those contradictions, boxing becomes an exercise in respect. Not unlike any relationship, it’s about getting it, giving it, losing it, and, often, fighting for it.

Maybe that’s why in relationships we often focus on our fights; or why in boxing victory is called a “decision.” Things are decided, changes are made, dominance changes hands. My first relationship—my marriage—had no fighting. I thought that was a good sign. My second relationship was an affair. I met him at the boxing gym. For longer than I would like to admit I struggled with him. Struggle, I learned during those weeks we’d see each other, is the definition of passion. I had never had either before and then I was thrown into the ring. So intoxicated by sweat, and blur, and even the sting of a jab, I never bothered to keep my left up. But there’s nothing better to remind you that you have that left then getting a good night hook to the jaw. Although that relationship seemed negative in every way, that boxer helped me discover my left.

Sometimes I get exhausted to see that so often my life needs gloves. Accounts are past due, senior colleagues are skeptical, boyfriends become indifferent. I feel overwhelmed, alone in the ring with a crowd (if only in my mind) watching. I go looking for a towel—anything to throw down to stop the struggle. But recently I’ve been trying to remember that sometimes if I just listen for better music and remember to breathe, I can get past the contradictions and the stings I can keep my left up until the bell. And there is a decision.