Jessica and I aren’t one of those couples who resolves their arguments through therapy, letter writing, or reading aloud from one of those Chicken Soup books. We do things the old-fashioned way: We yell.
Another thing about us: Jessica may be a yoga teacher, but she’s from the Bronx and I’m not. Which might explain the look on her face when I said we would be spending the evening trying out this new trend called couples’ boxing: She was smiling, but something in her eyes whispered, It’s on, sucka.
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8:30 p.m.
Our boxing instructor’s name is Ron. He looks like a farmer and talks like Borat. He proceeds to lead Jessica and me into an empty studio at our local gym. “I am train Israeli special forces,” he says. “Let us make combat.” Um, okay then.
8:45 p.m.
We start with boxing. Ron gives us two pairs of enormous gloves. I put mine on and look like I’ve been turned into a cartoon character. He shows us a basic combination—left jab, right punch, left jab, right punch, uppercut—and asks us to practice in the air. I can’t seem to remember the order. In fact, I’m saying out loud, “Left. Right. Left…” Jessica, however, has fists flying and the facial expression of boxer Bernard “The Executioner” Hopkins.
8:55 p.m.
Time to start pounding each other—almost. Ron hands me a boxer’s training pad. It’s about three feet long, and you hold it squarely in front of you while your partner punches it with all their might. “Go!” he yells. Jessica starts in. “Left! Right! Body blow!” I’m a grown man who’s literally getting backed into a wall by a woman who meditates and loves Deepak Chopra. I’m deeply confused…but I’m kind of liking it.
9:00 p.m.
My turn. Jessica holds the training pad, and I somehow manage to hit the thing crisply, exactly how Ron told us to—left, right, left, then uppercut. With each “thud” I see a look on Jessica’s face I recognize but am shocked to see here: This woman is getting turned on. Huh. Even yoga instructors like macho manliness.
9:10 p.m.
Now it’s close-quarters combat. “Grab my wrist,” Ron says. I grab. He twists it free in a millisecond. “Now you try,” he says. Jessica grabs my wrist. I twist as Ron twisted. Jessica is still holding on. Humiliating. But I realize it’s no big deal to Jessica. There’s a smile on her face that says, “I know you’re a dork, but I love you anyway.”
9:20 p.m.
Time for me to flip Jessica. She grabs my neck and I roll her over my shoulder, but slowly enough that she lands softly. It’s more like choreography than combat. Lesson for guys reading this: You think you’ll be able to show off your physical prowess in one of these sessions, but you won’t. Instead, you’ll handle your significant other as carefully as you’d hold a puppy. There’s an unexpected closeness in this. And this could be why I’m having such a great time. I’ve never been good at manufacturing intimacy—reciting love poems while playing the harp with a dove perched on my shoulder, that sort of thing—but when intimacy happens organically, I know it, even when I’m in a gym drenched with sweat.
The Verdict
Our arms are sore from blocking punches, and we’re exhausted, but it couldn’t have been more fun. I’m not sure it would’ve been had other people taken the session with us (competitive male energy always seems to overtake such situations)—so a private session was exactly what we needed. We blew off some steam, held each other close, and I got to ogle Jessica in a tank top. Most importantly, I learned I have a power she values more than the perfect left hook... I can make her laugh. So forget date night. We found something better: fight night.
Gregory Gilderman is the author of She’s the One: The Surprising Truth About What Makes a Woman a Keeper.
-- Gregory Gilderman