pint-sized punishment

Sweet. Baby. Jesus. That's really the only words I have to explain how I feel after what I assumed would be a less than challenging class at my gym. I would like to think I am somewhat athletic. I've played sports most of my life and try to work out regularly so I thought there would be no problem joining the kickboxing class. Boy, was I wrong. I walk into the class to see a petite blond woman, roughly in her 40s, decked out in cute workout gear and a bubbly personality to match. She had me fooled. What I assumed was a small, fragile woman who would work me through a few punches and jabs turned into be a lean, mean, killing machine. (She methodically hid her huge cannon arms until midway through the class.) As I was putting on my gloves I noticed I was the only person in the class. This should have been my first red flag. The others were probably lying somewhere, passed out from their first session with my pint-sized drill instructor. She then put on a microphone and spoke as if the class was filled to capacity. About five minutes into the warm-up I was red faced and panting, wondering what I had got myself into. Thirty minutes in I was slowly fading in and out of consciousness. Determined not to quit for fear of her yelling at me through her microphone headset, I kept pushing through. What were once forceful jabs were now pathetic taps. On a few occasions I actually grabbed the bag and hung on for fear of face planting. Once I got home I grunted and whined, professing that I couldn't stand up, even to cook dinner. After walking my husband through the proper way to make tacos, I had slowly begun to feel like my old self again. Things were returning to normal, the color of my face, the tingling sensation in my quads, my heartbeat, all started to cease. If I have taken anything away from this, it's to never again assume I'm good at something. Also, never trust a small instructor.