I used to have a self-defense video, I found it quite insightful and it gave me a touch more reassurance that should anyone try to attack me, I knew a few moves that would aid my escape.
My husband once offered to be my attacker so that I could practice my tactics on him. He stuffed a pillow up his jumper and cushions down his trousers then with me facing away from him, he grabbed my hair. My trained reaction was to clamp his hand down hard onto my head, spin around quickly and kick him in the nards... More cushions were apparently needed! Next he faced me and grabbed my shoulders; I kicked him in the nards. He pinned my arm behind my back then pulled my back against his chest so I threw my head back, scraped down his heels down his shins and then Yep, kicked him in the nards. According to the self-defense coach this is no time to be acting like a lady, and according to Hubby, it is a miracle we ever had kids!
My good friend Sam called last week to suggest we attend Kick Boxing classes in Denbigh and I agreed immediately. Unfortunately for me though, she meant proper Kick Boxing training whereas I was thinking girlie style aerobics with a few punches added to the moves. We arrived at the town hall to find the room filled with kids; dozy Sam never checked what time the adult class was. “Never mind” she said “at least the kids won’t hurt as much when they punch us” the brakes on my shoes screeched into action, “Eh, why would they punch us?”
I scanned the room taking in the mitts, pads and skipping ropes and started to feel faint. The children looked at us as if we were lost as we chose a skipping rope and joined them on the floor, much to the amusement of their parents. With relief (and a good sports bra) I discovered that I could still jump rope and childishly threw smug grins in the direction of the tangled sprogs until it occured to me that they are going to take it in turns to beat the living daylights out of me soon. Some teenage boys joined the class as we were doing some warm up stretches and I hoped that the waft of Lynx would overpower the smell of fear emanating from my direction.
Russ, our trainer, told us to pick a partner and then grab a pad. Sam grinned at me as she explained how she broke her bloke’s thumb last time she did this before bounding off to get a pad. I watched her 5ft 10in frame enthusiastically practicing round-house kicks as she waited her turn and I wished I had inherited my family’s tradition of 6ft physiques rather than being the runt of the bunch who can stand 5ft 4in on tip toes.
Sam held the pad first and I soon found myself throwing my full weight into the punches and kicking like Mr Miyagi’s mother. Only one misdirected foot; which almost managed to launch Sam’s nipple into the strip lighting. Then it was her turn. Sam never said so but I could tell she was getting fed up with me backing off from her attack like a constipated kangaroo until that is, her foot missed the pad (my fault) and connected with my hand. The crack sounded around the hall and I could feel the kids watching me to see if I would cry. To my surprise as much as theirs, I laughed. From that moment the fear of being hit left me, I am not as big a wimp as I thought!
By the end of the class I felt fit, fearless and desperate to get home to show Hubby my new moves, not to mention the muscles that must surely have appeared in the last hour. Hubby was pleased for me as I demonstrated my hooks, jab punches followed by a roundhouse kick…..crack…oops…goodbye cushionless nards.
He banned from kickboxing :-(