Attack.

I’m the type of person that, when they get stuck in a rut, tries to avoid feeling sorry for himself. 

Like, wallowing in self-pity. Even though that’s usually the gut-reaction most people have when they suffer a crushing defeat or when they continue to fail over and over. I guess there’s something comforting about just sitting there, replaying what happened to you, your feelings bubbling over into despair.

Its easy. And I try to avoid it, not because its bad. We all need some “me-time” to reflect. I try to avoid it because I prefer the alternative.

The one where you get angry, where you want to attack the situation that got you in this defeated state in the first place.

I recently was able to form a plan of attack after being down in the proverbial dumps for awhile now. Man, was that exhilirating, just the feeling of finally being able to fight back.

I know all of this is really random and pretty out-of-context, but I think we can all agree that finally being able to attack our problems feels fucking fantastic.

Pugilism.

I started boxing training when I was 15, when I heard of a deal that was going on at the local Y from my gym teacher. I trained for almost four years, went from 183-158-173lbs, and learned an encyclopedia’s worth of fitness, health, self-defense, and the sport itself. It was a life-changing experience to say the least, and that’s why a lot of my work tends to latch onto my boxing backround.

The following is a snippet from a piece titled “Take Five” I wrote last year:

“He needed a breather.
He started to remember the old days, back when he was 19 and felt like he could do anything. Like he could’ve been Ali or Dempsey, fighting for 15+ rounds with those little itty-bitty gloves that might as well have been socks.
Like he was immortal.
But now, at 46 years old, only three rounds into defending a title he didn’t even care about anymore, he could see the deterioration in his body as if it was a separate entity, standing in that very ring with him. He could see it in the eyes of his 24-year old challenger with the 32-pack abs who clocked him over his right eye.
Boxers sometimes do this thing where, during their 60-second breaks, they stand instead of sitting on their stools. Like they’re not tired. Like psychological firepower.
Like they are invincible.
But he gave up on that move after he turned 33.
He couldn’t pay up anymore. Trying to maintain that…that trying to be God among men…he just couldn’t anymore. The physical sacrifice was too great. He needed more time, especially now, when he was sure his lung had just collapsed and his meniscus was torn.
Invincibility costs too much.
Immortality, more.”