Guarding the Goods

“Guards up!”

The instructors in kickboxing are always shouting this. From the corner of my eye, I catch a half dozen women pull their arms, fists clenched, up in front of their widely smiling faces. They’ve been busted again. Letting their guards down constantly. They have been thinking about moving their feet or whether the toes point up or down on a side kick and what the hell does this woman mean when she shouts, “Jab, hook, up, up, cross.” And with each new thought, their guards get lower and lower until they are left standing defenseless, head and chest exposed, open to attack. And yes, I understand it is just a class at the gym and no one is going to take advantage of their vulnerability, but whenever I hear, “Guards up,” I know mine are already there. Fists ready and muscles flexed over the pieces of myself I’d most like to protect. I never put them down. Not for a second. Guards up.

All of that makes me a sufficient boxer. But it is inevitable that something is going to sneak by and, BAM, hit me smack in the face. Like tonight flipping through channels, disgusted by the crap on every channel. But wait, what’s this? I find something I loved once, The Beatles in A Hard Day’s Night. Those who know me best can guess the blow that knocked me for a loop, the kind of hit that makes your eyes water even before your brain has a moment to register the pain. I can’t watch A Hard Day’s Night without thinking of my friend Emily and I wasn’t exactly planning on thinking about her tonight. Not tonight while I’m exhausted and have dropped my guard. Not tonight when I realize, too late, that I should have stuck to my original plan and gone to bed directly after saying goodnight to the kids. Not tonight when there is no one at home to make me forget what I’ve lost. So, I’m watching and laughing in all the right places and feeling so, so sad that I can’t just pick up the phone and demand she tune her TV to the same station so we can watch together again. And I wasn’t expecting that jab.

Or like the day my husband brought my childhood desk home for our daughter. He called to me with a laugh when he realized there was some funny writing on the underside. And I remembered what I’d forgotten. I knew what that desk said and I wanted no part of it, but couldn’t help but crawl under it, lay my head on the dusty cement of the garage floor and crane my neck to take a peek. There in bold black lettering, I Y The Monkees. Signed, Emily Bright. Her own thick script knocking me on the chin.

Or driving the dark streets of my old neighborhood as The Bright Night 5K was winding down, past Em’s house lit up like Christmas and feeling a strange emptiness kick me in the chest. Where were Laura and Louise when I needed them most? Guards up, woman! Guards up! If I could just learn to let my fists fall to the sides, let everything in, maybe the blows wouldn’t hurt so badly. Maybe they’d seem less like blinding punches and more like gentle reminders that life is there, around me and I need to take it in, not constantly block it out. Maybe. Or maybe I’d just end up getting my ass beat daily.

At each of these moments, I’d like to say that I bawled like a baby, no longer able to hold in the emotions battering me. But, I’m not like that. I’m too good at keeping up my guard. So the best I can do is tighten up my straining muscles, feeling them tense from my gut up through my jaw and fight my way through. I know letting my guard down is good. I get it. But that doesn’t mean I know how to do it. That doesn’t mean I’m capable of it. Apparently, I’m a really good boxer.