For a year, I’ve been taking private kickboxing lessons with a group of middle-aged people who all admit to being out-of-shape. Recently our private lessons ended and we had to try the regularly scheduled classes at LA Boxing. I was apprehensive.

While wrapping up my hands before my first class, I heard one young woman say [...]]]>

For a year, I’ve been taking private kickboxing lessons with a group of middle-aged people who all admit to being out-of-shape. Recently our private lessons ended and we had to try the regularly scheduled classes at LA Boxing. I was apprehensive.

While wrapping up my hands before my first class, I heard one young woman say she was going to be 21 and her friend exclaimed she would be 23. I glanced behind me to see who they were. I realized my apprehension had a lot to do with my age.

Sometimes when I walk into this boxing gym I notice the other women look at me. In other gyms they might simply be noticing a fellow hamster in the wheel. But in the boxing setting, I have the distinct impression they’re sizing up the competition.

In the latest LA Boxing promotional video, friends won’t fight the guy in the LA Boxing t-shirt for the remote. He has a reputation. These instances always make me wonder if it’s right for me.

So what am I doing kickboxing anyway?

Marlow and Barbara fighting

Recently The Washington Post ran an article, Blood Sisters: Through boxing, two suburban women build a special bond in the ring. People asked me about the article. They wanted to know what I thought about fighting.

I’ve actually seen these women fight. They stood there and beat each other. They didn’t move. They didn’t block. They hit each other relentlessly. Word was, they were friends.

The article emphasizes their friendship but also the violence:

What’s a best friend if she can’t break your nose or bloody your face?

And in the 2 ½ years that Barbara Bartolomeo and Marlow Prado-Blankenship have been boxing together, they have blackened each other’s eyes, split lips and cracked nose. Later they giggle, displaying their wounds to friends who stare in disbelief, unsure how to respond. After all, what woman in their mid-40’s with husbands and children and sprawling, suburban homes in the Montgomery County community of Boyds beat each other for fun?

I started down the kickboxing path to get into shape and I’m certainly much more fit. In that first class I couldn’t help but notice I had more stamina than the two younger women. 

Being able to protect myself is certainly another benefit. This week a few guys were on the bags around me. I decided to pound out a few kicks to warm up. After my first “thump” they all whipped around to see who had delivered the blow. The confidence to know you can defend yourself is reassuring.

In the Post article, the women said they box to escape. The hard-hitting energy is a release. On more than one occasion, beating the bag has helped vent my frustrations. A friend mentioned having a bad day and feeling like kicking something. I know where you have perfectly legitimate excuse to do so.

One time we were sparring without gear which means you aren’t supposed to hit each other. My friend and I both accidently socked each other in the face at the same exact moment. The competition and aggression can easily get the best of you. I glanced at the clock to see how long my face would sting then experienced a solid ten minutes of pain. I’m pretty sure I don’t want to hurt someone or be hurt.

Every week I ache. I’m bruised. Most of the time I can’t lift my arms or legs. But I keep going back. I’m not fighting someone. It’s between me and the 150-lb. bag. I still worry about the perception of being a fighter.

When I was interviewing clients about their journey from homelessness to housing, one woman kept saying “I’m a fighter.” She had suffered from terrible depression and wound up on the streets hopeless, but she found strength and fought back. She was a fighter.

That’s the only kind of fighter I want to be.

“That’s not what you said on Facebook, but I have a much better picture now.”

“Yeah,” I responded, [...]]]>

“That’s not what you said on Facebook, but I have a much better picture now.”

“Yeah,” I responded, “Lately I’ve been wishing I had a Secret Cindy account so I could be myself.”

Over the past couple of years I’ve happily added friends, acquaintances, political figures, co-workers, church members, family, and bloggers. I enjoy reading the news feed and keeping up with everyone, but I don’t know who I am now. When I post a status, who am I talking to?

I think some people don’t post status updates for exactly this reason.

I don’t have anything to hide. But if I posted the description of the motorcycle rally, people who don’t know me well might not understand my comment in the right context. I’ve always been overweight and have shopped at Lane Bryant. For many of the women, the rally was a chance meet up, but obviously not for me. If you aren’t a close enough friend to know how I struggle with my weight and have close friends who are gay, you might misjudge my status.

A friend didn’t like how Barack Obama, as a candidate, changed his demeanor for different audiences. When he first mentioned it, I realized I do the same. I don’t speak with a friend from another culture the same way I speak to a politician. My word choice, speed, and content are different. Both online and offline, I have a diversity of friends. Isn’t this true for all of us?

The situation on Facebook is perplexing, especially when professional contacts are included on your friend list. Obviously I would tell my family more intimate details about our weekend than I would share with a state delegate. Family want to hear about your kid’s accomplishments but to everyone else it’s bragging.

A friend who grew up down the street from me, couldn’t believe a current friend called me “Cindy” on Facebook. Didn’t I hate that? For 23 years I was against the nickname unless we were family or close friends, but as work blended with socializing, the distinction blurred. Eventually I felt silly telling people to call me Cynthia.

Now people from every part of my life are blended together on social networks. I’m very conscious of what each person thinks about every word I type. I’m concerned aboout what people will think.

I like sharing details of my life which helps me keep in touch and get to know others better, but it is difficult to speak to large, diverse audiences. Even though the message is the same, often the words need to be different. My status updates are generic and perhaps less fun, hence my wish for a wild and crazy Secret Cindy account because I like to joke around.

Who are you typing to?

Earlier that morning I had [...]]]> Recently a friend was contacted by an old business associate. My friend started this person in her career and helped her rise to the executive level. Then the protégé made unflattering comments in meetings and was untrustworthy with information. My friend wanted to know what to do after years of separation.

Earlier that morning I had wandered around the grocery store wondering if I burn too many bridges with people. Generally, I give people a few chances. I try to understand the situation if I’m approached with anger or high emotion. I’m accepting of different kinds of people and can put myself in their shoes. I revel in an eclectic group of friends and like to trust them. But if a consistent pattern of bad behavior develops, it’s difficult not to avoid the perpetrator.

Carrying around disappointment and anger can erode your soul. Forgiveness is tough. In my faith journey, forgiveness is the hardest part. However, not forgiving is grievously worse. If you burn a bridge with someone, you have the oppressive task of lugging around the charcoal pieces and can no longer continue your journey in that direction.

During my conversation with my friend, we decided on an email olive branch. Although a small gesture, it was a significant act of forgiveness.

I guess the gnawing in my gut has to do with a bridge that’s rebuilt in a shaky, piecemeal manner. The old level of friendship and trust are never reached. We do it all the time. I can’t help but believe that this really isn’t forgiveness. The bridge is still burnt.

During a sleepover with the friend, my younger son nestled his three Bakugan on their magnetic cards on his desk [...]]]> The past several days I’ve been wrestling with a situation. One of my older son’s friends has taken my younger son’s toy. It’s not the first time. What do you do about a situation like this?

During a sleepover with the friend, my younger son nestled his three Bakugan on their magnetic cards on his desk when he went to sleep. My husband saw them there at bedtime. This was his toy of the moment. He carried the little balls everywhere. Since they’re magnetic they were even attached to his silverware at dinner. He had to earn 10 extra homework points to get them and this took 21 days. The number of days is etched on my mind because earning the toys was as stressful for me as it was for my son. This toy meant a lot to all of us.

The friend was sleeping over on a school night. Just as the older boys were about to go to middle school, the little one woke up and said his Bakugan were missing. He was trying to get the boy to show him where they were, but it was time for them to go to school. As the vehicle pulled away, my son started to wail and I understood what had occurred.

Just before they had left, I told the boy that he didn’t need to take his overnight duffle bag to school. He had this slight panicked look and involuntarily started to move toward it, then stopped. I noted that his reaction was odd at the time. He had been upstairs going back and forth between the bathroom and my son’s dark bedroom several times. Just as I went to ask him what he needed, he dodged downstairs for breakfast. The whole morning had this slightly unsettled feeling for me.

Since my son was crying, I immediately went to the duffle bag. The Bakugan weren’t there but under the clothes I found my son’s coin collection and his cub scout flashlight. Since he wasn’t crying about these items, I ignored them.

What do you do? All I wanted was for the Bakugan to come back. Bakugan were the main thing on his Christmas list and now he was without the few he had earned.

I called the parent and happily reported that they were off to school on time. Then I explained that my little guy was crying because he woke up and his toys were missing from his desk. I didn’t think my older son had moved them. Could he ask his son about it? There was worry on both sides about how to handle this, but still hope for a happy ending. However, a couple of phone calls later, I was told that they were in my house. The boy claimed they had been playing a keep-away-game where he held the Bakugan hostage. The boy didn’t remember anything. When I explained that he had been keeping them “hostage” in his hoodie pocket until my son removed them, there was some anger from the parent. The boy is willing to share a few of his Bakugan with us.

Even my little one said, “He is just trying to make himself feel better.” Yes, I explained, it’s called “alleviating guilt”.

No one wants for anyone to be upset. I’ve lost two nights sleep.

I haven’t mentioned the other items in the bag or the fact that one day last summer all my older son’s best Yu-gi-o cards disappeared. They had been playing with them and when the boy left my son went over to his decks on the table and all the best cards were gone. We didn’t say anything. We don’t want to start trouble or accuse a friend. You don’t know how to make that phone call. I made the call this time but the parent believes his boy would not lie. I’m struggling.

One part of me thinks I should just forget about it. We already accepted that we lost our best cards a long time ago. We are hoping that the Bakugan my mother-in-law bought for Christmas are an exact replacement. In the meantime, we gave him one of his Santa presents and frantically paid a fortune online to get another one delivered so that Santa doesn’t look bad. You can’t buy these toys in stores because they sell out immediately.

But what do I do next time the boy comes over to our house knowing that he has probably been taking things each time?

Do I frisk him down and go through his bag? Of course, I couldn’t do that in front of the dad. Okay, I can’t do it at all.

Do I talk with the boy myself? Tell him all I know? Warn him? It’s not my place. What good would it do? He lies to me about things all the time. You can’t have conversations like this with someone else’s child.

What if he starts to steal MY things? It’s an awful feeling. This is the feeling my sons have now. We all know what is happening.

The boy needs help. He needs to learn that he can’t take things. What if I don’t say anything and he gets arrested for taking something? Don’t I have a responsibility to try to teach him right from wrong? I care about this family.

I don’t want to l lose the friendship because they can never visit us again. I don’t want to lose the friendship because I tell the whole story and there is anger at me. Bad feelings will hang between us. I’ve spent days trying to find the right words. If I tell the whole story, I still won’t be able to trust the kid, and I probably will have lost a friend.

I want my sons to learn from this situation and I’m afraid that no matter what I do it will be wrong. Do I teach that you keep friends you don’t trust and let them take from you? Do you discard friends when they do wrong? Do you try to help someone with a problem? Can the boy really be helped?

I think I’m going to lose some more sleep.

Since I always had good grades and was never an athlete, I never considered myself like good old Patricia Reinchardt. Also, I notice everything about everyone so I’m not so clueless [...]]]> During a conversation with a friend today, he blurted out that I was Peppermint Patty. I always thought I was Lucy. He didn’t think so.

Since I always had good grades and was never an athlete, I never considered myself like good old Patricia Reinchardt. Also, I notice everything about everyone so I’m not so clueless about others, and their names (Chuck), and whether they are dogs or human, or how they are reacting to me.

How am I like Peppermint Patty? I can see that people would call me “Sir”. My family thinks I would be the first one kicked off Survivor because I would start telling everyone the best way to do things (but they say “boss everyone around on how to build the shelter”). For Pete’s sake, I’m just a mom in their lives, and that’s my job. Friends do seem to follow me around. I definitely had a Marcie in my life from time to time. Also I enter a situation like “Chuck’s” baseball team and do immediately work to improve it by being pitcher. As we know, I was a tomboy and was friends with all the guys. Actually dating is an area where I was completely clueless like Peppermint Patty. At least one really cool guy apparently tried to get my attention for a long time. I didn’t notice until he took drastic and direct action.

How well do you know yourself? Are you like a cartoon character? My friend is not like any of the Peanut characters. He’s not like any character I have ever known. What about you?

Image from www.snoopy.com