On the box.

My boxing teacher, Rocky Raccoon, doesn't understand me.
That, in itself, is not a problem.

The problem is, he's trying to figure me out.

For a while he was assuming I was there to lose weight.

(At boxing, the week before last...)
Rocky Raccoon: "And if you keep coming every week, and do your skipping, you'll lose heaps and heaps of weight."
Me: "Uh huh."
Rocky Raccoon: "And then, when you go to the pub, all the men will hit on you!"
Me: "Oh, great, coz I've really missed THAT."

Well disabused, Rocky's search for motive was over, or so I hoped.

But no.

I went to boxing last week to find that Rocky had lugged in a wide-screen TV. On the screen were muscle men and close-ups of bloody noses. Ew. I have already told him that the less connection I sense between the skipping, push ups, punching of bags, and people actually fighting, the less likely I am to wag class, but I might not have said all that aloud.

I blame "Million Dollar Baby".