By the way, I suck at blogging as I haven't posted in months. I'm not sure if I'm good for this, but I'm going to keep trying.
So I watched Green Street Hooligans (again) the other night and I got fired up enough for the need to punch the bag. I hadn't punched the bag in a while, mainly because I hadn't made time for it, but the other reason was two of the rings that hold the bag to the chain had come off from previous tantrums. I turned on some punk rock and had just started unleashing a fury of unorganized punches when I knocked the last two rings holding the bag. One might think this to be a proud moment, knocking down an EVERLAST bag, but I had too much testosterone yet to be released. Fortunately it was not past 9pm, so I was able to go down and pick up a new one.
This time I splurged by getting the 100lb synthetic one, plus I purchased a two year warranty. I figured $40 for a two year warranty was a bargin compared to two years of avoided therapy. That reminds me that the first time I wanted to get a bag in high school, my mom didn't want me to because she said I wouldn't express my feelings verbally. I told her I would always communicate how I felt verbally and not to worry. I don't know if I lived up to that promise because some things are just left for the bag. Sometimes a guy can't talk about what he is feeling to a woman (mom, girlfriend, wife) because she can't understand the way a guy is. Women don't understand the whole testosterone thing, pride, self-worth, etc. If there isn't a bud available for having a beer and unloading, one of the next-best things is a good session unloading on a bag.
0 comments:
Post a Comment