Kickboxing like a champ

I'm a pseudo-kickboxer twice a week, meaning I go to the gym dutifully every Monday and Wednesday night where I, among other things, knee and punch a giant, stationary bag, play with imaginary nunchucks, and go wild with jump-kicks that could cause some serious damage to a threatening but unsuspecting jaw. I'm pretty sure that would translate into real-world street fighting skill absolutely not at all, but let's leave that for now.

There are always two different instructors for the two nights, each with a slightly different style. Monday is a non-stop fire-cracker of a woman who makes the time fly by because I have to furrow my brow and bite my lower lip in concentration most of the time just to keep up with her. Wednesday's instructor is slower, steady, with combinations that aren't as complex - but she kicks our butts when we go to the floor for ab work. But tonight, there was a substitute. And maybe it was out of sheer exhaustion from kicking and punching, or maybe it was delirium, because I have been known to let my arms flail a bit too much, with the consequence of hitting myself in the face every now and then, but I could swear I hardly saw her lift a finger the whole class. She yelled, she barked, she counted out the number of hits we had dealt, but she walked...slowly...around the room, like a nun in a Catholic school ready to rap your fingers for going out of form. I don't trust these teachers. I think, if you're going to show me how to do it right, you've got to sweat at least as much as I do. After all, we would like to pretend, at least for an hour once a week, that we're bad-asses who deserve to be led by an instructor who is, herself, an ultimate fighting machine.