Forget dinner -- a punch in the nose would be better

Recently I shocked a whole carload of girls by announcing, apropos of nothing much, “I’m over dating. Nine times out of 10, sparring is better than sex anyway.” While they stared, I reconsidered my statement, realized it was 100% true and decided to make it a personal motto.

It was my ex-fiance who first encouraged me to start fighting. Appalled by my American temper tantrums (he’s from Israel, where men get to do the yelling), and my ever-widening behind (we threw lots of dinner parties, what can I say?), he hinted, begged and finally demanded that I check out a local fitness kickboxing class.

I huffily went to the gym -- and fell in love. Not with a guy. (Please. You give me no credit.) Rather, with the ever-patient instructors, the image of myself as a high-kicking gal and the zingy adrenaline rush I discovered the first time I jumped in the ring.

After my breakup, training became my way to release the tension that goes along with big-city dating. (He hasn’t called me in three days. Take that, kicking shield!) The ring was the one place where I could be surly, aggressive or downright psychopathic without alienating every man in my presence. (Ah-ha! I socked you in the nose. And I liked it!) I ditched the fancy gym, winding up in a small, sweaty but awesome boxing gym in Hermosa Beach called Impact. Over time, the sport became an integral part of my life. And finally, that strange epiphany: At this point in my life, I’d rather spar than go on a date.

I won’t lie -- one of the main reasons is that for two years I haven’t been in love, and therefore, though I’ve had plenty of intimacy, none of it was particularly earth-shattering, and some was just plain bad.

I’ll take three solid rounds of sparring over five minutes of clumsy intercourse any day. There’s no post-coital awkwardness, no wondering whether you’re spending the night, no reassuring him that yes, you really were satisfied.

But looking around Impact, I realize that there’s more to it: Half the members are women -- and most of them aren’t nearly as bloodthirsty as I am. So why are we all here, sweating, suffering, ruining our manicures, when we could be out drinking cocktails?

Tony, Impact’s ginormous alpha-male owner, has a simple explanation: “You come here, you switch your brain off, you shut up and train.” And yeah, that’s part of it. When my brain is tired, I don’t want to be charming over cocktails. Or pretty, for that matter. One of the wonderful idiosyncrasies of boxing gyms is that the sweatier, huffier and more aggressive you are, the more the guys dig you.

“Nothing’s more attractive than a headstrong woman who’s doing her thing and can handle herself,” says Jay, a 30-year-old instructor.

Which is not to say that they’ll put the moves on you mid-workout. Not a chance. What they will do is respect your space, cheer you on and congratulate you when you land a punch.

“I’ve been doing this for 12 years,” says Micah, a petite, blond, 33-year-old human resources director. “The guys here are always going to embrace me, no matter if I’m sweaty, if snot’s hanging out of my nose. . . . The camaraderie keeps me grounded, and brings a sense of peace.”

To me, this last sentence could also apply to a healthy, grown-up, functional relationship. Since I am seemingly incapable of securing one of those, why not skip a few rounds of the superficial, dysfunctional “dating game”? I’ll take my grounded camaraderie where I can find it.