As many of you have read, there is one thing I really look forward to each week and that is kickboxing. It rights me. It allows me to beat the shit out of someone who willingly takes the punishment thereby significantly diminishing the possibility of me verbally attacking anyone who violates any of my basic principals on a given day. This is important because most violations (a car nearly hitting me, a person letting their dog shit on our lawn) occur in front of my very impressionable children. Another added benefit is the feeling of indestructibility that comes with knowing you have a solid punch; however, that power was significantly reduced this week when my class, normally filled with 35-40 something mothers, was invaded by high school students.

Typically, I take great pride in being able to perform the grueling workout routine our instructor designs for us, beginning with our warm up of jogging, butt kicks, high knees, and side shuffles up and down the floor. With my post baby body, I am just glad that at the end I don’t feel like throwing up or peeing. But it is embarrassing to take pride in a task that others more than half your age can gossip and giggle while doing. If they could, they would have been texting.

The really deflating moment was during our jump rope and push up segment. I’m no UFC fighter, but after several months I have become pretty damn good at jumping rope again. I felt confident I could keep up with the competition. The boy next to me jumped backwards the entire time. I wanted to slap him. Then, this same boy consistently completed two push ups to my one. He was on 25 when I was on 8 and by then I was doing them on my knees. I started to get a little pissed. Don’t they have P.E.? Shouldn’t they be off somewhere trying to get to third base while faking doing homework? Do they have to lift their shirts to much to reveal their Abercrombie abs while I’m fighting to keep my shirt from exposing my double C-section slack? But then I got it, a chance to right myself. I was asked to spar with Push Up Boy.

Once I looked him in the eye, I lost all resentment. I realized how intimidating it must be to have to box a woman your mother’s age (well, if I played my life cards differently, I could be), especially if he was taught to respect his elders not try to punch them in the head. I also know I could never be a MILF or a cougar because all I wanted to do was give him cookies and condescendingly tousle his hair. But, first I had to beat the shit out of him. “Hi, I’m Jeris,” I said, “How old are you?” “I’m a senior in high school,” he said, eyes shifting left and right (poor thing, have another cookie). “Does that mean I can cuss?” I asked, smiling. He looked me in the eye, returned the smile in relief and said, “Yeah, definitely.” And we were off.

While I was working with him, coaching him and repeatedly telling him it was okay to beat the crap out of me, I truly realized something for the first time. I am old. Not get a rocking chair and put me in a shady area old, although today that sounds really nice, but wise old and with that wisdom comes great responsibility. I have crossed over the line that separates the age of finding out what life is about from the age of helping others discover it for themselves. I am surprisingly comfortable with that. Sadly, there are a lot of mothers my age, non-hunting cougars and MILF wannabes included, who are not. Like the woman we saw at dinner last weekend who was wearing a boob tube, denim hot pants and 4 inch pumps to dinner with her 5 year old daughter and a man. Too bad. Surprisingly, there was a certain indestructibility that came with my realization, and a renewed sense of power. But not as much power as Push Up Boy felt from my right hook.