That’s not very ladylike

The coach has us kicking the bag — 5 times, then 10, then 15, then back down to 10, 5.

"Am I doing this right?"

"Rotate your hip forward too."

"Okay."

I can tell I'm not hitting it the way I should, but I keep going. I get to the set of 10 and something starts to click — the movement starts to feel natural.

The guy holding the bag for me is someone I'd matched with on Bumble the night before, ridiculously good-looking. I try not to think about him, or about how I look doing something I'm completely clueless at. What were the odds, in a city of two million people, that I'd run into exactly him? Something like 0.05%?

I keep kicking the bag through the round of 15 and something shifts. Mr. Bag-Holder becomes irrelevant, it doesn't matter anymore whether I'm kicking it right, I'm landing them with a force I didn't know I had. It doesn't come from muscle or hip rotation, it wakes up inside me from somewhere deeper, a place where something was smoldering that I didn't even know was there.

It comes from every single moment I refused to let myself get angry, every time I wanted to respond with maturity, and above all, with restraint. How can you get angry if you understand the situation?

I'm really something, aren't I, always understanding everything. You upset me? I'll work out why, and I'll get where you're coming from too. It's probably not even about me. Ugh! You let me down? Well, I set my own expectations. I was probably just collateral damage in your attempt to make your own life better. You judge me? I get it, I won't bother trying to talk you out of it. I understand and I move on, and sometimes the bitter taste fades before it can spoil my next meal.

But now I'm kicking and I don't have to understand anyone anymore. I swing with everything I've got and it feels like I'm spitting on all of them and slamming them into the ground.

Kick 8That insufferable cow at the shop, always throwing in one extra long question in Hungarian, because she gets a kick out of watching me squirm.

9My mom's priest, who has the wisdom of a jellyfish and the cunning of a snake.

10Every biker who revs his engine at night right outside my window.

11Fuck them and their bikes, I'll bash their heads in with their own mufflers!

12 The idiot on the 4th floor, who yells at her kid every single morning, and makes me want to snatch him away before she ruins him for life.

13Clients who don't need programmers anymore because they can just use AI.

14 Fuck you, Zuckerberg, and your goddamn reels!

15 Orbán, Georgescu, Nicușor Dan.

14Erkan and his piano, and his mom still cleaning up after his 35-year-old ass.

13, 12, 11Fuck your piano and your PhD and "I'll call you when I get back."

10, 9You'll call me when you get back? In September? Are you stupid?

8, 7, 6 Better call your mom, have her come clean up after you!

5, 4, 3Screw wherever the hell you came from!

2 Here's one more, free of charge, hope it's enough for you, Erkan.

1 Fuck yeah!

The coach gives us a two-minute break. I drop to the floor, gasping, feeling like I just beat up the entire planet and could've given it a few more. I couldn't care less how I looked or how I did. Sorry, Erkan, for dragging your mom into this.