Krav Magoo Hullabaloo: Epsom salts and Mr. Bubble
I have a punishing workout regimen. Every day I do 3 minutes on a treadmill, then I lie down, drink a glass of vodka and smoke a cigarette. ~ Anthony Hopkins
Okay because I love each and every one of my eight readers (yeah I found out some more of y’all are actually reading this)… I am sitting in a desk chair typing at you about my Krav Magoo class. 
Which I can sum up right here: really fun at the time… Pain now… class again Wednesday. (FYI I started this post on Monday night after class… and here it is Thursday… so sue me.) (Wait, please don’t I do not really own anything but a really great dog who generally hates other new people… especially men.)
I never thought I would ever find a need to have my father rub my back down with Arnica gel and Badger Sore Muscle Rub… Our father/daughter relationship just went to a new place. The good news is I know what a Badger smells like now, those angry little guys do not smell of Honey.
Which had been previously suggested to me by a You Tube video; but I was also told if I said carrots really slowly it sounded likely gullible. I may be book smart and all but I will generally trust you assholes.
The class was great except that whole calisthenics thing we started with; running, jumping jacks, push-ups (of which I have never actually completed one…)reminded me far too much gym class and the whole reason I got my gym class waived. Well that and the evil freaking gym teacher that said ballet
was not athletic and my knee injury was all in my head and I should run. Run, run, run, run, until you vomit and then run some more. I looked at the bitch like she was a nutcase. I told that wicked witch of shiny hardwoods, that I am not a runner, never have been a runner and never will be a runner. (Along the same lines of telling my algebra teacher I would never in my life have to solve for X; and I have yet to have to do that stupid equation.)
Monday night it was confirmed again; I am not a runner. 
Not even in a small space. I think it had a lot more to do with the extra amount of chesticles I happen to be sporting now and the Calvin Klein Men’s Underwear photo shoot also happening in the same room. I know that not one of those damn guys was looking at me but it surely felt like it. Well they could have been looking at the significant amount of bouncing that seemed to be going on… I was truly afraid to look down for fear of earning black eyes or worse knocking myself out with my own knockers. Why can’t bra makers make a sports bra that actually works?
I mean for women that actually have boobs? Real boobs, the fake ones don’t do a lot of moving so they do not count, but chicks with actual God given chest puppies need to have something to hold them into place. Do not one of you dare leave me a message about how I should wear TWO of those damn things.
And back to: gym class was hard enough with hormones 
and awkward teens running around… Also my general dorkiness was a problem. Well that combined with my serious lack of hand eye coordination, but now with grown hot mens gallivanting about shirtless and pushing tractor tires and other glorious feats of strength… My ADD goes into overdrive. It is like someone is over there throwing glitter into the air. I want to fucking stare. I am supposed to be focused on punching and kicking “through” things and there are beautiful mens prancing around and wrestling. Part of me can now seriously understand why guys love to watch chicks wrestle; except for me it isn’t sexual it is to weed out which one of the group is the strongest… intelligence gathering. Natural selection and all…
Rubber pants, was there again. I saw him without his shirt on; I can tell you that he does not have a single trace of fat on his body. It was like looking at a very nice looking skinned squirrel in damned ugly rubber bloomers. He had the “V” (which every girl knows about) 
so I will excuse the toddler pants and just stare at the rest of him. Rubber pants, is really pale like me so I started thinking that maybe pale babies would be his thing, so my highly distractible mind started to run with that whole scenario in my mind and kept dropping my left hand so I could stare more. Really putting the cart before the horse there, but a lady must keep a lot of things in mind when selecting mate material. Rubber pantaloons, not so great… but the V that can excuse a lot of wrongs; watching what he does though I am concerned about brain injury, further intelligence gathering will have to be done.
The other significant observation I made was that the local police keep stopping in and hanging out for a
while… I started to worry that they were there to haul off any asshole (me) that could not cut it. The next class will be worse because I can barely move; this means I will attract more attention and get yelled at by big guys that wear shirts that read “Guns don’t kill people. I kill people.” They do not mean to be mean… it is supposed to “inspire” instead it just makes me jump and attempt to stifle a squeal. Sweet tea and baby Jesus if I ever sneeze in there. My sneezes sound so squeaky. I am positive this will 
be taken as a sign of weakness and the pack will kill me and devour my bones. Did I mention only the good looking local Barney Fifes come rolling in… not that fatty one that I never see do anything. Now that I have said that he will catch me and my lead foot. Knock on wood and kiss the ceiling. I must go prepare for my class now. Owie.
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Wednesday Night’s class:
T Shirts and Testing
I am Gunnery Sergeant Hartman, your senior drill instructor. From now on you will speak only when spoken to, and the first and last words out of your filthy sewers will be "Sir". Do you maggots understand that? ~ GySgt. Hartman from Full Metal Jacket
Tonight’s class was a bit different. The owner/main instructor was there the whole time so it was a bit more like having GySgt Hartman in the room with you; total reference to Full Metal Jacket right 
there in case you missed it. To keep things interesting they try and keep things changing and thus not routine or expected; did you know fights are not predictable? Well y’all do now!
Rubber pants, wasn’t there, of course, because as I mentioned I wanted to collect further intelligence on him. There was a new and more varied assortment of hot mens. 
Some I had seen but never worked with; others entirely fresh. New hot mens is always acceptable, and when they arrive in cop cars I see people I need to be friends with. Especially since I enjoy seeing how fast the damn hamster in my car can run. I should mention it isn’t all that impressively fast but enough to keep me in trouble, if I do not watch myself. Still I keep waiting for the oil to come out and rub downs happen… the only thing I saw was hand sanitizer though and only on their own hands. Bah.
The hot cop from Monday night’s class is actually married to one of the new virgin girls with my group. We will call her Hot Cop’s Wifey. She is really sweet and her husband seems alright… although slightly terrifying because I think he could kill you weapon or no weapon.
Also with me in my “virgin” class is a girl who we will call Baby Mama since she has a child and smells of really great baby lotion. Then there is Harley, called as such because he wears a Harley Davidson shirt. He is the biggest in the class, I do not mean fat, I mean BIG. He is at least as big as GySgt Hartman perhaps even taller; pushing him around is hard! So we little bitty noobs just sit there looking at him, like a gazelle seeing a lion. He has a bad knee, and if this was in fact a street
fight… my instincts say “Hmmmm… obvious weakness…” but I am not that cruel and bitchy. I like Harley he is like a big daddy bear.
Wednesday night apparently was test night. Which means after all that running and warm up and me taking a shin/face plant to the floor in front of married Hot Cop and as yet undetermined other Hot Cop along with several other hot mens; who I am positive saw that if nothing else they SURELY saw me fall over with all the grace and elegance of a dying, gassy, water buffalo.
That’s how life is… no one sees you triumph they only see you fall over and bite your tongue to keep from crying like a little girl (please say that in an Arnold accent or a Scottish accent in your head). The ever poised fall direct to shin bone, then roll to the face I plan to perfect into my secret weapon. I just have not worked out how to perform a full on attack as I lay on the floor rubbing my bone. Do not fear I will figure it out… I am a smart one.
So after the run around the mats we played some horrible rendition of four corners (remember that game). 
The more senior members got to pick their favorite warm up and we had to perform each one a certain number of times, then get up run a full circuit then arrive at the next one. Married hot cop is on my shit list at the moment because he chose some horrible invention called, in our class “Dirty Bastards”, although I have seen it in old movies called by other names. Basically you drop to the floor and jump pushing your feet and legs out behind you then jump up and clap your hands only to repeat it again. It was not pretty. I got through one or two… sort of. Then just sort of passed out/fell on my girls, I tried to pretend to be dead but no one cared. I did manage to get six “half-ish” pushups at one corner but I think that had more to do with 
GySgt Hartman standing behind me than my ability improving over one night. The last corner was something called a “Dive Bomber”; it looked a bit like Yoga and I thought finally something I can do. WRONG. DO NOT BE FOOLED this was no Yoga. This was some kind of evil Satan Yoga.
Then Hartman set the virgins off to one side and we were instructed to watch the tests. For the remainder of the class time I watched as each of the levels basically beat the shit out of each other 
increasing in intensity as they moved up the ranks. Married Hot Cop, who I was still pissed at over the Dirty Bastard thing, was apparently not feeling well… his wife informed me. She was worried. If he was sick and that was his “sick performance” I would not want to meet him at his peak. Sweet tea and Baby Jesus; the guys in his level were fucking amazing. One of them started bleeding and just kept going. One of the lower levels threw up, twice. It was good for everyone there that he made it to the bathroom; I happen to be a sympathetic puker. Also had it gotten on the floor I am not only afraid of what Hartman might have done but it would have stopped all the awesome male on male wrestling and my views of whatever those MMA fighters were doing.
In the end everyone passed, though had I been grading Hot Cop would have had to take a few home in what Hartman called a “Waaaambulance”. 
Clearly I know nothing but a few of them looked like they might die and perhaps should not be in the class. I am sure I look the same but I am judging them… not me. (mostly) I even got a shirt. I guess because I came back after the first class. I think the real test will be coming back on Monday after seeing that test night… and Hartman looking at us babies and informing us our first test would be in six to eight weeks. I think I will be sick that day?
