I was in Atlanta in the 90s, training the closest human to an actual mythical goddess I had ever met. Her name was Nefertiti, a 6’1’’ Nubian fitness model who had the most beautiful gap in her front teeth and a giant afro, making her seem about 6’8’’. We would do yoga and martial arts in the racquetball courts until the club manager, who was also very beautiful, came over to tell me that it is unhealthy to move the body like that. Yoga or functional fitness had not yet entered the fitness world.

However, she also said, “I see y’all in here doing martial arts. I’ve been teaching cardio kickboxing for a few months, and I want to see if it is really like kickboxing. I would love to try to spar with you.”

Nefertiti, always with a subtle giggle, inched forward, looked down at me, then her, then me.

I said, “Sparring wouldn’t be safe, but if you catch me here, I could hold pads for you some time.”

Nefertiti smiled and left for the locker room.

The manager said, “Have you ever done cardio kickboxing?”

“No.”

“You should try my class today. We start in a half hour.”

So as my body told me to say, “no,” I must have blacked out, because when I came to consciousness, I was standing in a class full of women in spandex, and the lady who just asked me to spar was standing at the front of the room with a headset mic saying, “Everyone welcome Matt today, it’s his first time!”

I looked back, and outside the window was Nefertiti standing there waving and laughing; I could see her mouth say, “Good luck.”

I had seen this class many times walking past. Sloppy kicks and rabbit punches, some bobbing and weaving. Everyone was in great shape; the music was loud, and I always wondered where they found music like that. Was there a special record store that just sells weird, cheap-sounding music for fitness, shopping, or being on hold?

I figured that this couldn’t be as bad as the countless other times I have been paralyzed by beauty and unable to say, “Nope, no way.” Because a cute girl asked me to do some  high-impact booty blaster class, as I find myself wondering why I am weirdly able to “pop it.” 

It took me years to realize that the fastest path to being friend-zoned is to be the guy that does the Cindy Crawford or Buns of Steel workout with you at your parents’ beach house. They weren’t interested in me; they just wanted company while getting in shape to impress Brad at the Volleyball game this weekend.

So yeah, I’m going to the class; that’s a given. This time I had a personal goal, though, and it wasn’t to please or impress a fitness babe I just met who leads with “Hey, would you want to spar?” 

I was going to treat the class like a one-hour shadow boxing round. Throw real punches and good kicks, because cardio and fatigue are great ways to stress test technique. I wasn’t going to be a kung fu spectacle or go all “eye of the tiger” in there because being the only man in there is spectacle enough. This time will be between me and me. 

The teacher assured me that there was no reason to be shy. Just like the last 20 teachers did the last 20 times I have joined these classes.

The class starts; we begin our warm-ups. I’m in my safe place, in the back. Just kidding. I always wind up in the front, stage left, but at least I can see the teacher.

We start to stretch a little, and I’m surprisingly flexible, so she immediately breaks her promise, “Great job, Matt!”

I expect this, because it happens every time. The lies in group fitness no longer surprise me. 

Now the class is going, the music is as loud as her breathing in her headset mic as she shouts distorted words of encouragement and instructions at the class. It’s like we’re at a discotheque with a PA system they stole from a prison yard.

I’m extending my punches and starting to push myself because I know that now we are all focusing on ourselves. The teacher remembers to remind them I’m there. “Push it, Matt! C’mon,” “Great job, Matt!” “Get those knees up like Matt!”

Then she pulls out the one all women hate just as much as I do: “C’mon, smile, Matt!” It’s not just a thing men say to women. I hear that a lot. I get it. Have you seen my furrowed eyebrows? When I’m happy, I look like I need to call someone.

After, we talked about the martial arts and yoga that I teach. We hit some pads; I suggested that she take an actual martial arts class. Good cardio and her amazing attitude towards learning new ways to move are great attributes, but it’s easy to lose them if you get punched in the face or thrown down and choked. Although I said that with a giggle and a quite charming shoulder shrug, I think that was the moment she realized what martial arts is.

“I can’t get hit in the face”

I assured her, “Usually you have to train for a while before that happens. A good school won’t do that to you, or maybe try jujitsu; they don’t punch, it’s more like wrestling.”

“I also don’t really want to wrestle around with strangers.”

Now, I didn’t want to tell her that the feeling she has right now is the same one I have every time someone asks me to dance or take some damn aerobics class. However, every time I say “No thanks,” Their eyes just look at me, saying, “Why? How could you not find this fun?” Or their mouth says, “You should step out of your comfort zone.”

Stepping out of my comfort zone would be to just say, “No thanks, hit me up after your class.”