Calmer (or: I love Frosties)

I ate a Frosty and a crispy chicken sandwich last night, talked to my mom, read Web sites about skin problems and looked at pictures of people who have it worse than I do.

I can't pinpoint which of those actions did it - or whether it was the combination - but I feel better today.

I also took my first boxing lesson today (I was hoping for the ju-jitsu, but I'll take boxing, definitely), which had the combined effect of proving that I am not in shape; I can throw a pretty decent punch; and fourth grade was a long time ago as jumping rope goes. My lungs protest. The rest of me is hooked.

My partner for the class was a 13- or 14-year-old kid (Casey), and I felt like a terrible person for aiming punches at his head (which he protected with those pad things on his hands).

"I'm a horrible person" - THWAK! (left jab)
"I'm a horrible person" -WHAP! (right jab)
"I'm a horrible person" - WHAM! (left hook)

That was my internal mantra and my rhythm for a while. He said I didn't hurt him, and after watching him demonstrate some grappling moves with the instructor, I believed him, but still - It just didn't feel right to be punching at a kid's head, no matter how much padding was in front of it.

"You can start to hit me hard, you know - like real punches." (that was Casey, and it made me lose my balance. I looked at the mat. "I, um, I am hitting hard." Which was the truth. Crap. I'm a weenie.)

In completely unrelated news, the (younger, slightly creepy) guy at Subway yesterday called me "honey" - twice - while he was making my sandwich ("What sauces would you like, honey?" "You want to make that a meal, honey?"), which resulted in a strong but unfulfilled desire to fling a jalapeño in his eye.