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No anger? Tell that to the punching bag.

No anger? Tell that to the punching bag.

Forget therapy, just put on the gloves and let ‘er rip.

I only hit it first because it was there. My sister-in-law was showing us their new ping pong table. But I came back to it after ping pong was underway with the boys. Then I kept hitting. Then I put on the gloves and couldn’t stop.

I didn’t know I had any anger until I started hitting the punching bag … and punching and kicking and jabbing and sticking.

Everything I know about boxing I learned from Rocky movies. Which probably qualifies me for the welterweight* championship. So I know how to duck and protect, move and come up strong. I dance and jab, jab, jab then a strong follow through.

The bag turned into cancer and I wouldn’t let up. I started fighting dirty: kicking, pushing, undercuts, roundhouse, shoving, talking smack, taunting and gaining momentum.

I machine-gunned my fists as fast as I could (and realized it wasn’t all that fast), but it got me out of breath. I stepped back and looked at the bag as it swayed like a body in a noose. Was it dead? Or was it something that would never die? I warned it that I would never give up, that I would never back down, that I had energy until I couldn’t stand. I kept going.

It’d be cool if the bag had some sort of gauge that measured how many times you hit it, with what force, with what consistency, strength. Or we could just leave it low tech and know the answer ourselves.

For 45 minutes, I danced and pranced, jabbed and slugged. I talked and yelled, screamed and fought. I smiled and cried, laughed and exhaled like a … boxer. (Well, the exhaling part, not the smiling and crying.)

I’m a lover, not a fighter. No, wait, I’m a fighter, too.

I didn’t know I had it in me. I didn’t know I had the anger or the energy to let it out–to get it out. I was sweating through my button-down collared shirt. My pinky and ring fingers ached from a few missed shots. My arms felt like Jell-O.

But I left something of myself in that bag. I left some anger. It feel good. No, it felt great. We’ll see how I feel tomorrow.

Let Out Your Anger Through Boxing

Ask the bag how much anger you’re holding back.

*I have no idea what “welterweight” means.


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