Hard-core. That's me.

I was told today by David With the Lovely Arms that I'm the most hard-core newspaper person he's ever met. (He clearly hasn't met my marathon-running coworker)

I'm taking that as a compliment. I'd just spent 20 minutes beating the crap out of a punching bag ("Nice work!" David With the Lovely Arms said) and getting the most incredible burns on my knees from kneeing the bag.

I never thought I'd be able to set aside my self-consciousness enough to work out around guys (a key factor, in fact, in previous decisions to not have gym memberships), much less allow myself to sweat buckets around/with them, nearly faint around them or potentially puke around/with them (I missed out on the wind sprint-induced upchucking today, as I was late and without running shoes), or that I'd be willing to practice these ju-jitsu positions with them (rather intimate-looking to an observer).

I never thought I'd be willing to tremble head-to-toe while attempting to hold a plank position, sweat dripping off my nose and down my neck, side-by-side with a guy who's doing the exact same thing while he keeps up a three-minute stream of epithets and pounding of the mat with his hands.

"Jesus ain't got nothin' to do with this — He isn't going to help you hold that position, so stop sayin' his name," Jason told David last week.

Sweating, shaking and near falling, I looked over at David and gasped: "He actually might help you hold that position. Pray harder." We tried to laugh, but it was pretty hard to laugh without collapsing on the mat.

I think it's knowing that the guys aren't strutting around, checking out the girls and trying to look all macho. We all look like idiots together, we all groan in sheer pain together, we all fall on our backs (or faces) trying to land a kick, we all get red-faced and sweaty, and no one has much room for vanity in the middle of all that. I feel safe in that kind of environment.

As safe as a girl can feel when she's in a choke hold between someone's knees, that is ...