The new gym has a small basket on the reception desk in which people can drop their keys as they enter, presumably so they won’t lose them in the locker room or on the workout floor. I always take advantage of this amenity, but there is always a moment of weirdness as I put my keychain into the basket. I half-expect some ugly weightlifting dude to interrupt the kick-boxing class to tell me that I have to go home with him, because he picked my keys.

It’s been awhile since I last took kick-boxing, and I forgot how much fun it is to PUNCH! and KICK! The petite little thing who leads the class is especially encouraging, shouting things like, “Do you know what that knee is for? To SMASH SOMEONE’S HEAD! Smash it!” Years ago, when I first started kick-boxing, I had a particularly awful boss who was on the imaginary receiving end of my blows. Now there is no one in my life I hate that much, although I wouldn’t mind wiping that smirk off Mitt Romney’s face.

Every girl should be taught to land a solid punch. It’s very empowering. As a result of this class, I really believe I could administer a severe beating, as long as there were an appropriately rhythmic dance music remix playing within earshot.