So here's the rub. I want to get in the ring and box. My two daughters, Elli aged 9 and Katy aged 7, are adamant that I shouldn't. So what should I do?
I attend boxing classes at Eliza James' Boxing is for Girls gym in Sugarhouse. Despite the infernal cold, last night there was a strong showing as always for Ms James hour long mix of work out and the art of pugilism. It was a tough combo of 20 pulls up, 30 press ups, 40 sit ups, 50 squats and then repeated endlessly with other elements thrown in, including working on a bag. James caught me swearing me up a blue streak in frustration at dragging my flabby carcass round the gym. She gently chastised me, although she's been known to use a few four letter words in her time.
At the end I got to work on some jabs, cross-jabs and uppercuts and there were moments when I was just flowing, feeling my arms just pounding away at James' glove. I wanted to get in the ring there and then. But the idea of their Daddy coming home with a split lip, lost teeth and bloody fills my little ones with despair, as they loudly announced to me on the drive to school this morning.
Quite why I want to fight eludes me. And yet I do. So how do I defend what is arguably a reckless decision to those I love the most?
There indeed is the rub.