I have a crunch on something. Note that it is not a ‘one’, but rather a ‘thing’. That ‘thing’ is in fact WhiteBrook Boxing. I have a crunch on the whole concept and delivery of WhiteBrook Boxing.

I get my ass to class two times a week, excitedly. I look forward to the challenge and my mantra has become ‘mind over body’; often times, I find myself whispering it repeatedly when in class in order to conquer the feeling of either nausea or passing out. It works.

More importantly, I admire and respect my coaches and want them to be proud of how far I’ve come – because trust me when I tell you that I’ve come far. (And I’m only at the beginning of my game and plan on going a lot further.)

When the above is combined with the fact that I am a geek, I immediately want to have everything affiliated with WBK. I want one of all of their paraphernalia and I want to wear it proudly…like, for example, all of their t-shirts.

This inherent geek need has brought me to a cross roads.

See, the reality is that I own two of their three t-shirts; one is the perfect shade of blue-based red (worn to Krav Maga) while the other is a perfect shade of heather grey.

That’s two.
When there are three.
The third is the one to which I have no access.
It is the one which haunts my dreams. The one which drove me to an OK Corral stand off in the girls’ change room on Tuesday evening.
It is WBK’s: Sexy black t, the back of which declares rather proudly something like “boxing for enhanced sport performance because I’m an ‘athlete’ and you’re not nyah-nyah, LOSER!“.

The only people allowed to have this t-shirt are: Athletes.

I am not an Athlete, ergo: I can not have the sexy black t.

My wardrobe will forever be wanting because my family didn’t put me into competitive futbol.
Are you fumbling through this injustice with me?

For clarity, let me offer:

ath·lete, [ath-leet]
–noun
a person trained or gifted in exercises or contests involving physical agility, stamina, or strength; a participant in a sport, exercise, or game requiring physical skill.

WBK trains the NFL boys who slide a puck across frozen water, and they also train Gee-Gees (what is a Gee Gee, anyway? GO CARLETON!) who trip and bump into each other ON PURPOSE while they run short girly distances (you call it ‘football’. Tomehto. Tomawto.).

When I was told the t was only for athletes, I accepted this reality and openly acknowledged that I would pursue the only option available to me: I would date either a Gee-Gee or an NFL person in a covert effort to “borrow” their black WBK t-shirt and then never give it back. Simple, yes?

Well. Simple until Tuesday evening came to pass when I was in the girls’ change room because they threw me out of the boys’ change room after class and lo-and-behold, in walked a girl wearing a black t-shirt meant only for “athletes”. I considered Krav Maga’ing her into submission and stealing the t-shirt, but figured that she’d come after me. Instead, I stared at her wide eyed wondering what sort of athlete she was before finally asking:

“Are you an ‘athlete’?”
“I’m sorry?”
“You? You’re an athlete?”
“Well. I play a lot of sports…”
“I don’t care about that. Are you an athlete?”
“Are you oh-kay?”
“I just. You know. I’m wondering because you’re wearing a t-shirt that only athletes are supposed to wear so I’m wondering what kind of athlete you are and if you’re not one then who are you dating and does he have a friend that is also an ‘athlete’ and who I can date and I’m a little hungry and dehydrated right now after class I see pink dots are you? I want your t-shirt but I’m not an athlete. I’m just a Palestinian and although I can probably throw a rock better than you, I don’t think that qualifies me as an athlete and SO I am not really technically allowed to OWN the black t-shirt and because I’ve been told I need to meet a certain criteria to have it I see that as a challenge and so now I WANT THE T-SHIRT SO HOW DID YOU GET IT WATER! WATER! WATER! SOS! PLEASE!”
“Wow.”
“You don’t want to tell me!”
“WOW.”
“All you ‘athletes’ are the same. Be gone with you and your elitist tight assed perspective on life. ENOUGH!”

…only it was actually: “Uhm. Hi. I like your shirt. What do you do? Did I mention I really like your shirt. A lot. It’s a nice shade of black.” (Really creepy since I was wearing a towel and standing too close for comfort to the nice lady.)

So there you have it. I don’t really know what “it” is, but that sounds like the appropriate thing to say after the hysterical ‘conversation’ I had in my own mind.

THERE. YOU. HAVE. IT.

I have to become an athlete. And I will – whatever that actually means, I WILL. Because no one loves a challenge more than me…and I want the black t-shirt. I will have the black t-shirt even if it takes me 10 years to get it. I will have it; trust me. And I won’t even date a weirdly labelled boy to do it – I’m just going to become an ‘athlete’. Somehow, and by any means necessary, I will become: “a person trained or gifted in exercises or contests involving physical agility, stamina, or strength”.

If McBush can be a presidential hopeful, I can be an athlete.
OLYMPICS HERE I COME. Or…at least…like, the local high school track.
Team sports I LOATHE YOU but I will conquer you if I must.

I will do this even though I don’t have a clue where to begin!

I will have the black t-shirt and my wardrobe will be complete.
I heart WBK paraphernalia!

(Will keep you posted on my endeavours.)