Surrender To You

Breath. In. Out.

Shifting my feet again, I threw out two punches from my right hand and one from my left. Replanting my feet, I repeated the combo. Then again.

The rhythmic sound of boxing gloves hitting punching bags and Jim shouting instructions from the ring were a steady presence for me as I continued my warmup routine.

After my last combo of round one, I automatically returned to the starting position, locking my elbows into my ribs and holding my fists up to my cheekbones.

As I waited for my pounding heart to return to a quieter pace, I let my arms fall to my side for a minute, taking deep breaths. Resting between rounds was my least favorite part, but it was necessary.

“Shake out your muscles,” Jim’s voice reminded me in my head.

Cold water dripped down my chin as I took a deep swig from my bottle and scanned the crowded gym. It was always packed on Monday nights, but the crowd usually thinned as the week wore on.

A class was going on in the back of the club. The instructor, holding a kettlebell in her hand, stepped to the side and lunged in a controlled movement as she spoke to the group of people in front of her.

Four years ago, I couldn’t have imagined walking into a place like this. Back then, I was a nineteen-year-old fresh out of JHU, buried under debt and struggling to find a job.

Maybe it was a ‘fuck-you’ from the universe to land a job that was not only a waste of her degree according to her parents, but located less than half an hour from her childhood home.

After finishing the second round of warmups, I wrapped my hands and peeled open the velcro straps on my gloves, which yielded a satisfying ripping sound.

There had been no other option but to find a place to escape from my parents' complaints and sorrows about the state of my life.

Otherwise, I wouldn’t be able to get out of bed. And that wouldn’t work, especially since I was behind in pretty much every part of my life according to my parents.

Most people would think that my life had just started. But to me, all I could think about were the decisions I should have made and the opportunities I missed out on.

Walking across the cool-white fluorescent lit floor, I approached my suspended opponent.

I spread my feet shoulder-width apart, and when I was ready, attacked. “Ssst,” I exhaled sharply on impact to the black, leathery material.

A few years ago, there hadn’t been many women here. Luckily, one of the trainers, Jim, had helped me learn the fundamentals and improve my nonexistent sense of balance and coordination. Never once did he make me feel out of place.

It was nerve-wracking and difficult to keep coming in day after day when half the time I struggled to remember how to stand correctly and tried not to show that my lungs were on fire after one minute of jumping rope.

Eventually, his unwavering confidence somehow rubbed off on me, so I got better. That’s how I ended up revamping their website and social media presence. Since then, more people have signed up for classes and I have a free membership for life.

“Good! Keep going,” the female instructor said to her students.

I had never considered taking a group class or sparring one one one. The main reason being that the punching bag didn’t talk back. I did enough talking all day long, which is why this was a better alternative to therapy.

I really tried to give a few different therapists a chance to click with me, but nothing seemed to work. By the time I finished the session, I always was left with a feeling of despair. Like I had more work to do than progress in the right direction.

All the stress from the workday melted away with every satisfying punch and retraction of my arm. For thirty minutes, I didn’t stop moving, letting the repetitive movements take hold of my mind and the twisting rotation of my torso power each punch to the bag.

Just talking about what I needed to fix wasn’t helpful. At some point, I actually had to do something about it.

I glanced at the clock on the wall, like I always did during the last five minutes. Giving it my all, I felt a higher dose of vigor take over my body as I finished my workout.

“Thanks for coming in. Have a good night!” the guy working the front desk said, as I walked past him and headed out the door with a familiar feeling of satisfying weariness.

Four times a week, one hour after work, I entered the boxing club for 45 minutes. It was what I looked forward to every day. I was part of a community that I chose.

Here, I had the freedom to shut off the outside world. If I was angry, I could hit something, and I wouldn’t be the one getting hurt anymore.

***

Of course this had to happen.

Staring at the overpriced bag of oats in my hand, then up at the top shelf, I finally placed the bag next to some boxes of granola bars, where I had found it. Why did this store always put the sale items on the top shelf?

Glancing around me, there were no employees in sight. I had just passed the cashier, who was attending to a long line of shoppers. He was moving at a sluggish pace and looked like he would collapse at any moment.

I placed my right foot on the edge of the shopping cart and, like always, flailed slightly as my other foot found purchase on the edge of the bottom shelf. It wasn’t the first time I had done this type of thing.

As a child, my parents had to hide any sugary snacks in the highest kitchen cabinet.

I breathed out in frustration as my fingertips reached just below where I needed them to be. Still, I tried reaching up again, which yielded the same outcome. Fuck.

“Need some help?”

I whipped my head to the side. It was not an employee, which should have been obvious from the upbeat tone of the man’s voice.

He was tall, with the type of blond hair that bordered on light brown. To most people, he would be considered very attractive. A strong, angular face, with eyes that couldn’t hide what he was thinking.

God, this was embarrassing. He looked like he was trying to hold back a smile.

Unlike me, he wasn’t wheeling around an overflowing cart filled with ingredients for the twenty-one meals of the week ahead, but holding a small basket that contained only two ingredients.

Chocolate chips and a bag of some kind of flour. It had been a while since I’d eaten homemade cookies.

His expression transformed into something bordering on alarm as he eyed the way I was still plastered to the shelf.

The hint of amusement sparkling in his eyes returned once I had both feet on the ground. I cleared my throat and nodded. “Sure.”

He smiled, as if relieved.

“It’s annoying that they always do that,” he said, his blue eyes flickering away from me toward the shelf.

For some reason, the understanding and lack of judgment in his tone made me feel slightly less mortified. Especially since he couldn’t relate to my dilemma at all, towering almost a foot over me.

Two seconds later, I had a brand-new bag of sprouted oats in my shopping cart. He opened his mouth to say something, but I spoke before he could utter a word.

“Well, thanks,” I said, pushing my cart away. I was keenly aware of his gaze trained on my back the entire time I walked out of the aisle.

My mind ran through all the possible reasons that was embarrassing. I must have looked like a fucking lunatic.

Arrays of brightly colored chew toys passed by, and I realized I was in the pet aisle. Having a pet was only great in theory. Taking care of a dog was basically raising a child that never grew up. It was expensive, too, and all the thing had to do was look cute.

I exited the aisle and went over to the snack section. How long should I wait around? The store closed in fifteen minutes, so that guy should check out soon.

After wasting time wandering through the store, even though I’d already gotten every item on my list, I heard the sound system crackle to life.

“The store will be closing in five minutes,” the monotone voice spoke. “Please make your way to checkout. Thanks.”

I did make my way toward the front of the store. Slowly. My heart sank into my stomach when I saw him standing there.

A young man wearing a red vest made his way to the checkout counter, sighing loudly. “Hi, how are you?” the cashier, probably still a teenager judging by the acne on his face, said to the blond guy, who started placing items on the conveyor belt.

The contents, which looked like enough to feed a family of four, were on the verge of spilling out of his basket. Why hadn’t he gotten a cart?

“Good,” he replied warmly to the cashier, flashing a radiant smile that ignited a fluttering feeling in my stomach. “How about you? School going okay?”

“Fantastic,” the employee replied dryly.

The sound that erupted was blaring and sharp. I covered my ears instinctively, like I used to when there was a fire drill at school. Fear settled in as I looked around the store for any indication of smoke or flames.

There was nothing that I could see, but my heart rammed against my rib cage.

The panic got worse when the employee ran off. The man in front of me passively watched him dart away, a secret smile painted on his lips. It confused me, cutting through some of my worry.

As if sensing my presence, he glanced in my direction, and his eyes widened slightly. Before I could retreat, he walked over to me.

“Are you okay?” He asked, his voice raised but gentle.

I nodded, lowering my hands to my sides.

“Someone must have pushed the opened the emergency door,” he continued.

As if on cue, a child being dragged by his arm by his mother made their way to the entrance of the store. The woman was spewing apologies as she wrangled her son with considerable effort.

He turned back towards me and grinned boyishly, as if we shared a secret.

“How did you know?” I blurted out.

He just stared at me for a moment, and I pushed down the urge to squirm when his gaze flickered over my face.

“Lucky guess,” he finally answered, his eyes still smiling, but with something far more intense dancing in them.