Wonderwoman? Or just a little nuts?

We all have moments or occurrences that have changed our lives. I have five: meeting my husband, meeting each of my children, and having a hysterectomy three years ago.
My uterus served me no purpose in life, and I was glad to be rid of it. I dance through the tampon aisles. Whenever I see an advertisement for Midol, my heart skips a joyous beat because I’ll never have menstrual cramps again.
Regaining control over my body re-ignited my lifelong athleticism, and, no longer hampered by the proverbial curse, I attacked a fitness regime with new enthusiasm.
Which brought me to Matt.
PART I
Matt is my personal trainer. Total alpha male. When we first met, as we sat in the gym talking, my husband walked over, put his arm on my shoulder, bent down, and kissed me on the mouth very deliberately. I later questioned him about this unusual display of affection. “Would you rather I just peed on you?” he asked.
Matt’s built like a meticulously piled stack of bricks and mortar, a short young fireplug of a guy, just turned 29, with a blocky head covered by a short blond buzz cut and some scruffy cheek growth. Strange tattoos cover his arms (and his torso, I think, but I’ve never seen it). One of them contains the word “sinner” if you look at it from one direction and “saint” if you read it upside down. Don’t ask me how this works but it does.
It’s a strange sort of intimacy that develops between trainer and trainee - Matt, after all, is slavishly devoted to my body for two hours every week. He knows how much I weigh, which of my muscles is strongest, and whether my calves have gotten bigger. He can probably estimate my body fat percentage, and he can definitely tell you when I’ve shaved my legs.
And let me tell you: thanks to him, I am strong beyond your wildest assumptions. In the gym, I can do deep-knee squats with 135 pounds on my back. I can do three sets of push-ups, a minute per set. Real push-ups. I can run a half-mile in 3.5 minutes. None of this is uncommon, of course, for athletes. But I’m a 45-year-old mother of three. I take extra fiber and a geriatric multivitamin every day. I have spider veins and have been known to complain about “kids these days.”
More important to me, though - and here’s my real strength - I can move mountains. My physical abilities carry me through the bleakest of days. When my spirit sags wearily and my kids seem to be sucking the life right out of me, my stamina powers me up. My physical strength has become my mental strength.
I have taken some heat from family and friends for having a personal trainer during this economy. It’s true that we’re not rolling in cash -- Husband is a firefighter, and we’re practically selling plasma to keep our kids in pre-school -- but I can’t give up this man. I’ve given up the cleaning lady and making do with one pair of sandals this year. I’m drinking cheaper wine, though I still can’t bring myself to buy Yellow Tail. Husband and I didn’t celebrate our 15th wedding anniversary. I’m only getting my hair cut every six months. I even gave up my yearly bikini wax.
My sister-in-law told me recently that she had gotten a personal trainer as well, and was loving it. “She’s so nice,” she told me. “Sometimes, if I’m having a bad day, she’ll just take it easy on me, and we do a lot of stretching.”
I thought about this. When I’m having a bad day, Matt says things like, “Pain is weakness leaving the body.”
My workout routine isn’t for everyone, I know that. But for me, the crow’s feet around my eyes seem a little less prominent when my triceps are visible.
And let’s face it, I’m just a little addicted to achieving what I thought was impossible. The other day, as I was doing what seemed to be my 400th set of lunges carrying a 35-pound weight in each hand, I reminded Matt that he had worn out my arms just two days earlier.
“I know,” he said. “It’s called undulating periodization.”
Undulating periodization? It would have sounded vaguely erotic had my arms not been on fire.
I would have complained had I not seen the weakness, disguised as sweat, flying into oblivion.
PART II
In addition to being my trainer, Matt has evolved into my boxing coach. Matt is one of those nutso Ultimate Fighters who can kill a man with his bare hands. How anyone steps into a fighting cage with him is beyond my comprehension. Sometimes, when he’s demonstrating a punch to me and I see his fist coming at my face, the knowledge that he would never in a million years hit me seems secondary to the fact that he can move at the speed of light.
I also take kickboxing classes. So between the classes and Matt, I’m pretty sure that, no matter who you are, I can kick your ass.
My husband works out with me occasionally, and has watched me box. He told me I looked “fierce.”
“Sexy fierce?” I asked.
“Uh, no,” he said. “Just fierce.”
I don’t care. My right hook is so strong I’ve knocked the catching glove off of my partner during sparring. There are few men brave enough to come to boxing class, but I can hold my own against any of them.
It’s one of the most empowering things I’ve ever done.
Now, I realize that lots of people might find this a little silly. And truly, I’m sure I’ve looked ridiculous at times, with my wife-beater black tank top and bandana around my head.
But there’s nothing like feeling a punch connect, even if it’s connecting with a thick padded mitt. It’s a rush, and it’s addicting, not just because of the power but because I’m unexpectedly excelling at something so improbable.
Matt has suggested - I don’t think he’s joking - that I try sparring with someone for real. I told him I think I’d be terrified. “But that’s why you do it,” he said. “If you weren’t terrified, what would be the challenge?”
Maybe I could make something happen in the ring. I have the strength, I think, and the stamina. And I have a couple of secret weapons. The first is that I’m cleverly disguised as a middle-aged suburban mother of three. And the second is - have you guessed it?
It’s my left hook.