Kickboxing & Birth

I go to free kickboxing classes in Harlem and joined the BedStuy YMCA. I haven't seriously worked out... ever. I listen to pop music, angry pop music, exclusively. On Spotify -- I can't even fathom diving into my semi-indie iTunes account. Katy Pery, Ciara, Rihanna, Kelly Clarkson, Pink, Destiny's Child -- hard punches, one-two, jab jab jab cross. I care only about protein in my smoothies now, could care less about greens. Strength. Go to bed hours earlier than I ever have to make up for the five am wake-up-can't-fall-back-to-sleep roughest hours of the day. Feel a sense of relief to slide into a desk in an office where nobody knows (terrible and wonderful), same desk, same office, same great people, for the third summer in a row. Part-time because I thought another summer in an office would kill me. Now I'm the first one here each morning, almost every morning, despite my part-time status, breakfast in hand. I eat breakfast now.

"Push" came the text message instruction, in response to my mid-meltdown-trying-to-breathe-through-it-please-help plea.

"Am I in labor?"

"You are birthing a new you."

I am, I am.