Senior Editor’s Note
By Cristina Jaramillo
It’s no secret the latter part of 2008 was not exactly what I like to call an accurate reflection of my superhero aspirations. I didn’t save the world, not even close. I was hoping that 2009 would be a different story—a funfilled adventure chronicle with a happy ending, but so far, the year has started out as a comedy.
At this point, I must make it clear that I’m generally not one to make life-altering promises at the beginning of the year. But I guess Oprah’s pleads in combination with my hush-hush guilty pleasure, The Biggest Loser, (shhhh don’t tell anyone), were no match for my subconscious, and I finally succumbed to get in the best shape of my life in 2009.
Mentally chanting Obama’s it’s time for change slogan, I marched over to my neighborhood cardio boxing gym, determined to do an unprecedented act—at least for me, the commitment-phobic—sign up for membership.
The simple act of stepping foot into that gym, gave me an adrenaline rush. Complete with a boxing ring, weights, punching bags, relentless boot-camp style instructors, and smelly boxing gloves, the gym is straight out of a clip from Cinderella Man. I knew that instant, those extra 8 pounds I packed on after returning home from college didn’t have a chance. Note to lovable Hispanic mom: I know you missed me and love me, but for the last time, I’m not super skinny; I didn’t starve myself in Boston, so please stop trying to feed me!
I’m not your typical workout-Barbie who goes to the gym to impress guys. For me, a good work out is when I’m drenched in sweat, swearing that I will never eat another Cuban pastelito, ever. In short, a good workout is when I can honestly say I’ve kicked my own butt, so boxing was a natural fit.
For the next month, I found myself consistently wrapping my hands and running over to the gym. I craved boxing. It became my new sanctuary—a place where I could take out all my stress and built up frustrations. Unemployed—POW! Broke—KABOOM!
And then one day, I tried out kickboxing. With “Eye of the Tiger” blasting from the speakers, I got on my intimidating boxing stance and proceeded to annihilate my opponent (in this case an innocent punching bag). I gave it a right hook, an upper cut, and for the grand finale—a full-force right kick. Next thing I knew, I was at the hospital with a broken toe. So now I’m unemployed, broke, crippled and with a brand new stack of medical bills. I’m forbidden to drive for at least five days and have to wear a sexy shoe with Velcro straps for the next six weeks. If break a leg brings good luck, does that also apply to break a toe?
I guess, before I can put on my superhero cape and go on to save the world, I have a few kinks and cracks to work on.