I box twice a week and do my absolute best to make every single class. Short of there being a natural disaster like a flat tire or exhaustion from the donation of blood, I get my ass to class as a nod of respect to my word and to my coaches.

Approximately three weeks back, I was lazy and considered not attending class. I hate the word lazy, and in all fairness, it was more that I was exhausted because I was sleeping very little at the time. Lucky that I went because that evening was the first one in a week that I slept like a (bad ass) baby.

After finishing class, I headed for the world’s worst designed change room. In order to get there, I had to walk through the weight area (hello, boys!). The first thing I saw was a man in a wheelchair. I’m not sure of the specifics of his paralysis, but by the atrophy of his arms, I think perhaps that he was once a quadriplegic who slowly regained the use of his arms. He was strapping one arm into the weight machine very slowly.

I didn’t catch anything beyond that because I’m not a complete idiot and didn’t wish to stare. Also, because over the course of the two seconds I used when I glanced at him, something caught in my chest, made its way to my throat and then exploded. I had started to cry. As I am drenched in sweat by the end of class and usually look as though I forgot to take my clothes off before stepping into the shower, no one could see tears streaming down my face. I quickly bowed my head and ducked into the closest washroom. And I cried. And cried. And kept crying, weeping actually, because I had lost all control over myself.

Boxing for me is a luxury I love to indulge. Truth be told, I don’t think about the healthy dimension it adds to my life – most important for me are that it attacks all of the stress in my life, kicking the shit out of it, and as equally important, vanity. Boxing makes my arms pretty and keeps my ass fitting into my size six jeans.

(And on that note,

Bite me,
Maha)

All I could think was how I had nearly not showed up because I had been tired. I had been tired and had considered not attending class, and instead taking my lazy ass home and relaxing, while there is this amazing and incredible man who can barely move, who can barely make the smallest of movements, fighting and struggling to do just that, at the gym, busting his ass because he has to. Neither for vanity nor stress, but rather because he doesn’t have a choice.

He did it.
Repeatedly, he does it.
He makes it to the gym and fights his own body in order to rise above the paralysis one millimetre at a time.

I am still struggling to understand why it affected me as much as it did – even writing this has me near tears. I think, partly it’s because I am beyond expression moved by his strength, which outweighs my own, and also because somehow that little window that opened and let me look into his life was one filled with hope.

Before walking out of the washroom, I knew that I had to start getting my ass to class for a different reason; out of respect for this man’s personal fight, because clearly, he doesn’t have the luxury of lazy and so neither should I.

I try my best not to take for granted anything, but mobility wasn’t something I had noticed before. Odd, right?

Now when I move and walk, and I am impatient walking behind the elderly (not to be confused with a slowpoke who still needs to MOVE IT), I check my impatient asshatted self and remember to respect all aspects of what I have, including the luxury to move freely and quickly on my own two feet, alhamdulilah.

I hope you do the same.

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Photo courtesy of one amazing Antitude.