Losing Time

Nearly a week ago, I lost my watch. The prevailing theory is that I left it in one of the cubbyholes in the room where kickboxing class is held at the gym. At the time and for several days afterward, the property misplacement was devastating in ways that had nothing to do with net worth. The timepiece was an eight year-old Fossil watch with a scratched face that survived multiple battery changes and journeys overseas to India, Israel and England. It was a trusty companion that served me well in perpetuating the lie that being able to check the time asserted some form of control over the universe.

In years past, the deprivation of my wristwatch produced a Pavlovian response. As if pulled to the nearest kiosk by tractor beam, I would plunk down the money for a new monitoring device that met the same relative specifications: waterproof (so I never had to remove it in the shower or while swimming), tight-fitting with a metal band (so it never required adjusting or displayed visible wear and tear) with a face small enough to be tucked under the sleeve without creating an unsightly bump.

Subsequent to the loss of the latest tether to a 24/7 lifestyle, I have come to realize that I viewed my watch as something much more than a way to track hours and minutes. It was, quite literally, a part of my body, a vital organ requiring replacement in the event of defect or bereavement (the latter word chosen purposefully). Rather than a tool of empowerment, the watch had become a merciless taskmaster, and I an obsessive devotee to marking the passage of time, breaking the units down into pieces of evidence of industry, self-worth and value. The evaluation of the day and my own use of it was reduced to how much time I had wasted.

As I mature, it's become glaringly obvious that some of the coping mechanisms I historically used to make sense of the world and navigate through it are not as effective as they once were. And in this case, I wasn't able to fool myself into accepting the ego's hypothesis that a naked left wrist required redress simply because digging a Blackberry out of my purse to tell the time was a hassle. Instead I forced an awareness of the knee-jerk panic experienced as I emptied my gym bag and sat down to think it out.

Raised in a home of disorder, chaos and cruelty, where regular tollgates and deadlines were treated as annoying encumbrances to be discarded, I don't need to lie on Freud's couch to draw the conclusion that consistent watch ownership lulled me into a false sense of security. The tax man, the angry bookie and the repossessing bank could never show up at my door with an enforced system of hypervigilance.

I have not purchased a new watch and I am not going to. Somehow the Earth has not rotated off its axis without the instant ability to know where I am in the 24-hour cycle of human existence. My latest fixation is to wonder how long the phantom limb sensation will persist. When will I cease checking my unadorned wrist for the accessory my subconscious was trained to believe it cannot do without?

Kick Me Baby

"Kickboxing. Sport of the future."
- Lloyd Dobler, Say Anything (1989)

Lloyd Dobler, John Cusack's iconic character from the classic film of the 1980s was the first good guy on whom I had a crush. Otherwise, it's always been bad boys for me. It's telling that one of the few times I became smitten with a sensitive, caring soul, he also happened to be a fictional character.

In any case, Lloyd's passion for the sport of kickboxing was the beginning of my familiarity with the activity. Regular boxing always seemed challenging enough but this new incarnation involved a whole mess of kicks along with the requisite punches. As I spent all of my prime years (15-25) on the couch eating, gaining weight and losing muscle tone, I had the urge to do little more than bandage Lloyd after that mean Diane Court surprised him at the gym, resulting in a nice shot to the schnoz.

In my mid-20s, as I realized that I had trouble walking more than one flight of stairs and that my body bore a passing resemblance to the obese, chain smoking mother I abhorred, I finally got off my ass. Eight years and 60 pounds later, I have become more than one who patronizes the gym out of necessity. I found that I actually love to sweat, to challenge myself, to raise the adrenaline. I now get off on strength and agility, the ability to hang with the toughest, the way I once found solace in a Kit Kat binge.

One thing that has always made me uncomfortable however, is violence. Can't stand to see it. Can bear even less to be the perpetrator of it. I am the woman who watches episodes of Grey's Anatomy through her fingers. So though I always admired the badassery of a Laila Ali or a Cara Castronuova (a former trainer on The Biggest Loser), I never figured I'd have the stones to take up a sport that celebrates physical combat.

My usual Tuesday workout had long been a 20-mile round trip bike ride to downtown Chicago, bookending a Russian kettlebell session with my friend and trainer Rob. Well about six weeks ago, Rob had to cancel our usual meeting and I decided on a whim to take a shorter ride to the Lincoln Park gym I patronize. I was finally going to give kickboxing class a whirl. I asked around and learned it was all bag, no hand to hand engagement.

The meek, it turns out, shall inherit kickboxing. As long as I don't have to spar with an actual human, I. Am. An. Animal. I have split boxing gloves in my enthusiasm for whaling on the bag. I have been interrupted by the instructor with inquiries into the condition of my wrists and knuckles. At first I was confused and assumed I was simply using the wrong form. But as it turns out, Reagan wanted to know if I was ok because I was "killing" the heavy black sack in front of me. I don't need Dr. Freud to tell me I have a lot of aggression to release. But finally, at long last, I have a safe outlet. I don't have to fear hitting as hard as I can.

I suppose in a way, much like Lloyd Dobler, the discovery of kickboxing has provided a sense of power and control in a world where I often feel weak and ineffectual. Lloyd was the product of a disordered upbringing, graduating high school while living with his single mother of a sister. As the movie opens, he is hopelessly in love with a girl who seems unaware of his existence, staring at the probability of a lackluster future. I am also the product of a disordered upbringing and like the character, demanding physical exercise, striking out at a nameless target seems a lot more spirited and hopeful than sitting around waiting for something to happen.

I never realized in my youth, as I sat watching Say Anything ad nauseam with my younger sister, trading memorable quotes at lightening speed, that kickboxing was the sport of my future.