Ever since I can remember, I’ve made a point or followed up an idea by doing a little fake punch or karate chop. I don’t do this around people I don’t know. But the other day, my brain crossed a line that separates “respectful colleague” and “friend” in regards to someone at the office.  And so, when we were planning something, I said “I think that’s how we’ll do it” and I did a Rocky move into the air.

She looked at me warily. “Maybe you need to come to my kick boxing class.”

So I did.

It turns out it’s “turbo kick boxing.” ("It’s nice they put the ‘turbo’ in front of it,” the other Greg said to me at lunch.  “Because otherwise you might mistake it for ‘pansy’ kick boxing.") But you don’t actually fight anything.  You simply kick and thrust at nothing in particular while a dance remix of Ricky Martin’s “She-Bangs” goes on for, I believe, a week-and-a-half.

It’s one thing to make one or two Rocky moves; it’s another to do it for 45 minutes.  So when the instructor said “You can get into it!  Pretend you’re fighting someone for real!” I became very excited. But who to fight?

A Hun?

A Hitler?

A Hilton?

No.  The ultimate evil are stormtroopers.  Not the Nazi ones, but the white armored dudes who ran around killing Jedi.  I hate those guys.

So I kicked.  And in my mind’s eye, a dozen stormtroopers went flying into the air.

And I punched.  And in my mind’s eye, I made the republic that much safer for freedom and justice.

Things got a little dicey towards the end of the session when we were asked to hold our legs in the air, motionless.  What kind of fighting pose is that?  You can get shot with a laserblast that way.

But then maybe I thought it was a Karate Kid sort of deal, where you look helpless but can spring into action and kick ass at a moment’s notice, and that got me through it.

Afterwards, my friend said “How was it?” And I said, with full confidence, “I believe we can take the Death Star.”