Jiu Jitsu in the Time of Coronavirus

"We won't shake hands anymore," my coach instructed. "And we won't tap hands before rolling."
     "But then we're going to roll, right?" someone asked.
     "Yes."

This exchange happened after reminders to wash our gis after every class. This is jiu jitsu in the time of coronavirus.

But they look so cute! Like Frankenberries!

I was not sure whether to go to class on Thursday night. All around me are recommendations of social distancing. Jiu jitsu is the opposite of that. You get in close, you hug your partner, your gi soaks up the sweat beading off your partner's forehead. . . . I know. When I put it like that, it's a wonder everyone doesn't want to do jiu jitsu!

If I don't go tonight, I thought, then I really shouldn't go until all of this blows over. That could be weeks. Months. Am I prepared to go without jiu jitsu for that long? 

The answer was no. I am focusing on new grips. I want to try them out. I have been working hard lately, acclimatizing to a new gym, trying to legitimize myself and my brown belt. I feel like I can't spare a minute, never mind a quarantine.

So, with Husband looking at me sidewise, Shark Girl went off to class and heard words like, "As always, if you have any cold symptoms, stay off the mats."

I mean let's face it, I've been rolling around in these guys' sweat for months now. If one of us has it, we've surely passed it on. We know that carriers can be asymptomatic, I justified to myself.

Middle School Son wears shorts to school every day. In the middle of winter. Unless Husband forces him to wear "sweatpants at least." We've given up on the winter coat that he insists he does not have but has been hanging in our coat closet gathering dust and growing too small for about a year. Middle School Son has seen this coat. He knows it exists. Yet he refuses to acknowledge it.

One day I asked High School Son (who always wore pants but lived through this strange shorts fad a few years ago) why middle school boys did this. "Its a game of chicken," he said. "No one wants to be the first to wear pants and admit that they're too cold."

If I'm being honest with myself, part of my decision to go to jiu jitsu was like that. I don't want to be the first one to cave in to the virus. Especially as the token female. They are going to have to make me not go, in spite of the fact that I have a son who is at high risk if he develops the virus. (Yes, Shark Girl is crazy. But you knew that already.)

I also wondered if I was contemplating skipping jiu jitsu to wimp out on my feelings of inadequacy. Who knew that deciding whether or not to go to class was going to tap into all of my psychological issues?

When I got home Thursday night, I washed my belt along with my gi. I know that's sacrilege. But the belt was sweaty, too. What good is it to wash the coronavirus off your gi only to have it fester unchallenged on your belt?

Just today another gym I am connected with announced they would be closing for a period of two weeks, like our local schools. What a relief it would be if mine did that, too. Then I would not have to make the decision. Then I would not have to search my psyche to figure out why I should or should not go to class. Won't someone else please wear their pants first? You would make it a hell of a lot easier for me.

*****
I really like Stephan Kesting's resource on COVID-19 and BJJ. I haven't read it all yet, but it looks pretty comprehensive. If I find anymore resources I find helpful, I will update this post. Please feel free to comment with any resources that have helped you, too.

Stay Healthy,
Shark Girl

Shark Girl’s Big Learning #1: Jiu Jitsu is Fucking Hard

It's been just over four months at my new gym. I am still filled with self-doubt each time I suit up. But I have made it this far and it is time to take stock of what I have learned.

Much of what I am going to say is not new or earth-shattering. It is mostly a reinforcement of what we already know—stuff it is good to be reminded of every now and again. Some of what I have learned is about what students need from their teachers, and it has informed (reinforced) concepts in my professional life as a teacher, too.

I have a lot to say, so my plan is to put it out in installments.  

Behold, Dear Reader, Installment #1: Jiu jitsu is fucking hard. 

Yes, you read me right, it’s fucking hard. Not flipping hard, not forking hard, not fricking hard . . . fucking hard.

Many of you are saying, “Yes, Shark Girl! That’s a good thing! It’s impossible to fuck without it being hard!” Well, to you I say, “Please! This is a family blog!” and “Maybe it’s time for you to get more creative in your personal life!” But, now I am off topic. Back to jiu jitsu.

Every time I think I have something down in jiu jitsu, every time I have felt that I was on to something or that I was gaining in knowledge or insight, I have learned that there is always more, there is always better, there is always something else, just beyond my reach. 

I work so fucking hard at jiu jitsu. Again and again I come back to the mat. I try something. I am humiliated. I come back. I try something else. I take notes. I make the same mistakes over and over again. I review notes. I see people better, younger, stronger, more talented, more [fill-in-the-blank] than I am, and I wonder why I put myself through this. Why do I press on in the face of insurmountable odds?

(borrowed from BJJafter40blog)

Sometimes the answer, Dear Reader, is, “Jiu jitsu is a magical cocktail of kinetic connection mixed with nerdy undertones and street cred.”

Sometimes the answer is, “Duh, cuz I wanna be a badass.”

More often than not, however, the answer is, “I have no fucking clue.”

None at all, Dear Reader. No idea why I make my life harder than it has to be. I could be sitting home at night eating pretzels and chips, sipping herbal tea and watching Netflix. Getting my kids their dinner instead of wondering if and what they are eating and what mess I will cmoe home to. Correcting papers. Perhaps even stealing some precious “alone time” with Husband. But, no, I choose jiu jitsu. And it’s fucking hard.

Can We Talk? Jiu Jitsu is a Conversation.

Lately, Shark Girl has been thinking a lot about what jiu jitsu means to her.

As I face a terrifying start at a new gym , I wonder whether it’s time to give up jiu jitsu forever in favor of less injurious pursuits. Therefore, I keep coming back to this: why do I do jiu jitsu?

A few reasons bubble up.

The first is that I am a control freak. Undisputed. Capital C. But that’s not what I want to talk about today. I’ll save that for another post.

Today I want to talk about how for me, jiu jitsu is a conversation. My partner says something to me and I respond.

"How you doin', pal?" "Not bad, how 'bout you?"

I grew up in a family where verbal sparring was the main form of recreation. The person who was the loudest or could overtalk the other person was usually the victor. To even enter these arguments as the smallest, youngest person there, I had to stealthily choose when to assert my point of view. I had to be quick and concise, and I had to understand that most likely, no matter what I said, I was going to be brushed off, overpowered, ignored. Or worse, someone would use twisted logic to turn my thoughts into something I didn’t even recognize anymore. 

These days, I have found that it is not really worthwhile getting into one of these family-style arguments. Last night on the phone Shark Dad tried to goad me into a lame shouting match over whether I had a lot of stuff left at his house from thirty years ago. (Spoiler: I don’t.) He complained that it was causing him and my elderly mother stress because they had to clean out all my shit and figure out what to do with it. 

I tried to deflect with a joke: “Oh, those rolls of quarters from when I was a waitress? Please save those for me. It’s my escape money if things go south with me and Husband.”

Watch out, Husband! Shark Girl could be movin' on out with this bank!

I tried to rationalize: "Those empty photo albums (that aren't mine)? No one uses those anymore, Dad."

But Shark Dad wanted contention. Stymied by my stonewalling, he pushed it forward: “Now your mother is getting mad at me because I’m upsetting you,” he said.

“You’re not upsetting me, but I’m not going to argue over this. If I have a lot of stuff left there, feel free to throw it away or leave it for me to sort through when I come home. I really don’t care.” 

And then he passed the phone to my mother. 

I think we were both sadder for that conversation. My 84-year old Dad was trying to connect the only way he knew how, but he only succeeded in causing tension. I saw a lonely, old man cleaning out his house so his kids don’t have to. But instead of having a meaningful conversation about that, Shark Dad made me feel guilty. I had disappointed him because I did not take his bait (chum?). And I disappointed myself because, in the heat of the exchange, I failed to realize what it was really about: (I’m not going to be here much longer. You better come see me and) Get your stuff. 

Just take the bait, Shark Girl! Doesn't it look tasty??!

That made me feel guiltier. 

I get frustrated rolling with people for whom it’s a fight. I’ve had enough fights in my lifetime. I don’t want to fight. I want a conversation. A communication. Something that when we are both finished, we do not have to agree, but we can respect each other and we know each other a little better.

I don’t play closed guard, but I respect yours. I don’t have long legs, but I enjoy learning how to get around yours. 

I do jiu jitsu to connect with the person I am rolling with. When that person smashes me or uses disproportionate strength, then I have nothing to say. I feel like, Why am I in this conversation, anyway? I have nothing to contribute and you wouldn’t listen if I did.

I recognize that not everyone is on the mats for the same reason. People have different demons to exorcise. But I need to understand what I want and need from this sport/art.

Check out this jiu jitsu demon by tattoo artist Fabien!

For me, when my partner does something clever, I laugh out loud. When they frustrate me, I try to find a different way to answer their moves. I walk away from those rolls feeling like I know my partner, and myself, better. 

When someone uses their full muscle and crushes my little person so that I can’t move, I usually walk away disappointed, defeated. I feel brushed off, overpowered, and ignored. Inconsequential and unheard. I’ve experienced that a lot in my life and it’s not fulfilling for me to experience that on the mat. Sure, I could learn to “speak louder,” but then, wouldn’t I just be doing the same thing to someone else? 

Maybe I need to give my Old Shark Dad a call. Perhaps we both didn’t have the best conversation skills last night. Maybe I was passing his guard (avoiding his sadness) while he was trying to choke me (with crushing guilt). Sometimes a conversation is not about what it seems on the surface.

Sometimes jiu jitsu is not about who wins the match. It’s about how much we listen to each other.

What Shark Girl Would Do. . . to Not Miss Class

I don't know about you, but skipping class freaks me out. Here is why:

My friends and partners, whose Jiu jitsu I want to encourage and foster, whom I care about as human beings, whom I love dearly and spar with only to improve their Jiu jitsu and NEVER for any egotistical reasons (I am much more Zen than that), if I miss a class, those wonderful people will totally get a leg up on me with some new move or extra practice. Then they will wreck me mercilessly the next time I am on the mat.

I also hate missing class because mat sense is real. I have been sidelined by inuries, keeping me off the mat for months. When I came back, it felt like that blue mat was water and I was floundering to stay afloat. It takes a while to get used to the mat after an absence. Like walkng on land after being at sea. Any time I miss mat time, I worry that my mat sense will diminish.

 Here is a Short List of things I have done instead of missing class:

Skip Eating

I love food, just not when it is within an hour of Jiu jitsu class. Dinner will have to wait until I come back. Speaking of food . . .

Not Feed My Children Dinner

Look, there is cereal in the pantry, and they are old enough to understand the beauty and ease of ramen noodles. I am confident their instincts will kick in and they will not become some Darwinian statistic. In the meantime, I got me some learnin’ to do.

Laundry On the Off Day

SG has so much laundry. Sometimes I feel like Sisyphus rolling that big rock up a hill. Instead my rock is a laundry basket, the hill is the basement stairs, and when it all rolls back down it goes through a laundry chute that wouldn't exist anymore if I had my house renovated because it is against fire code and no self respecting contractor who wants to keep his license is keeping that shit around.

     But no matter how much laundry I have done, no matter how tired I am of my basement corner with the dryer sheets and the Arm and Hammer and the big bins of sorted, sweaty, elementary-school–boy laundry, I will get my ass downstairs and make sure I have clean Jiu jitsu gear for my classes. Period. My son doesn't need clean underwear or socks, really. Half the time he wears them for days straight of his own preference. But I need a clean gi.

Take Maximum Ibuprofen.

Whether I feel a migraine coming on, or my muscles are sore from running, it doesn't matter. I will pop this wonder drug like candy if It means being able to make it through jujitsu class.  

Take Other Pharmaceuticals

 . . . especially those quelling any gas that might erupt, embarrassing myself and my classmates. Yes I am saying that sometimes (maybe very often) I take a Gas-X about a half hour before class, what's it to ya’? Actually you should all be thanking me. I do it out of consideration for my classmates. 

Show Up Places in My Gi

Yes, I have appeared at school events in full gi in front of parents and students because I didn't have time to change after class. I have gone to the grocery store flaunting patches and a belt. I know my schedule is tight, but that doesn't mean I should have to sacrifice choking someone I care about.

 

Looks like I will have to wait until 2018 to be friends with Jason. 😢

And finally,

Fight With Husband

I don't care what he has scheduled, Jiu jitsu is sacred time. He best not get in the way! (I’m pretty sure I can take him!)

Sometimes You Eat the Bear . . .

. . . and sometimes the bear eats you."

     I heard this quote on our new favorite family TV show, Granite Flats. Husband, me, and The Two Boys have revolving favorite family shows that we watch together. For a while it was Merlin, then Gortimer Gibbons; you get the idea. Granite Flats is our new favorite. It's about three detectivey pre-teens who mix it up with Cold-War espionage. Perfect family viewing. It's done by the Mormon Brigham Young University and there are references to God and being saved, but there has been nothing (so far) that has been too preachy for us liberal, New-England types. Except the pastor. Pastor Todd, is a little creepy. Mother of Shark Girl thinks he is "nice." It must be her '50s sensibilities; I think he's got a stalker smile and looks predacious. Vive la difference.

"Pastor Todd"
Okay, here he looks kind of cute, but on the show there is a huge creep factor. I'm sorry, Actor Who Plays Pastor Todd; I am sure you are a very nice guy! I bet the director makes you smile that way!

On my way home from jiu jitsu recently, I thought of Granite Flats and that quote, said by one of the pre-teens after a particularly fruitless day of detectiving. That's what I felt like after that jiu jitsu class--that the bear had eaten me. And the bear was a newbie, white-belt young girl, fighting for her dear life, and (almost) winning. She was strong as a bear, actually.

Ummmm, not sure why she had to go here. . .  .

     Now I can think of lots of excuses why the bear ate me that night, some relating to me and others the environment I train in. But I'm not here to make excuses (tonight). Back in May, I ate the bear. That night, the bear ate me. I should have crushed her. I should have been a wrecking ball (with my clothes on and not licking dumbbells, Miley Cyrus!). And I was making mistakes. I was ready to turn in my belt. Seriously, who AM I? Who do I think I am playing with this jiu jitsu shit? I've either got to step up my game or get off the matt. 

     And so, Gentle Readers, tonight I leave you with a lighter for me and my ego. . .

. . . and more metaphors about the volatility of learning jiu jitsu with this great, old, song "The Bug":

You may prefer the Dire Straits version; it was written by Mark Knopfler and covered by Mary Chapin Carpenter in 1992. Tonight I'm feeling a bit Mary Chapin Carpenter. And very much like "The Bug."

This (Shark) Girl Is on Fire

I went to a workshop where I pretty much sat for four days. Before dinner, I got a kick-ass run in at the hotel gym. But for four days it was an intense, cerebral experience. The night I returned was a jiu jitsu night. I kissed Husband and Kids lovingly, promised to catch up with them later, and then hurried off to class. I had already missed one class for this workshop, I didn’t want to miss another. And my family could wait a couple more hours to connect with me. They know my life priorities: 1) coffee 2) jiu jitsu 3) family 4) work. It was time for priority #2.

I love you, jiu jitsu, but coffee will always come first!

Sometimes, when I have been off the mat for a while, I gingerly step back on, worried I’ve lost all my accumulated knowledge. I tentatively tap hands, make excuses with an injury or how tired I am, and move my limbs like dead tree branches attached to my trunk.

Sorry, I didn't mean to scratch you with my legs!

Then there are other times, like that night. My head was a fog. I couldn’t retain two instructions that my Prof said. “Were we supposed to start in side?” “Did he wasn’t us to go twice?” But when it came time to spar, I was a hound unleashed, unstoppable. I moved around all obstacles, quick quick. My opponents had no idea where I was going next. My muscles had their own mind and moved without instructions from my head. Where was this coming from?

                It was a magical night. My favorite partner was a rag doll, moving the way I wanted him to, and when he didn’t, I just switched my position and complicated things again. I was having so much fun in my own little reverie that I almost felt guilty. I wanted to roll with Favorite Partner again, but was that fair? Was it fair to ask for a reroll because I was kicking his ass? I went easy on him the second time so as not to hurt his ego, but it wasn’t as satisfying.

Then, when I went with Prof, I could sense he was easing into the roll, trying to get a feel for where I was at that night. I didn’t give him a chance. I caught him in a choke before he even realized we had started.

I rolled with a few more guys and it was the same thing. I was water on a hot frying pan, dancing around and frustrating my opponents. It felt so good, but so bad at the same time. I was powerful, strong, accomplished and winning. And every time I flushed with pride, I thought, “I can’t do this to so-and-so. How does this make him feel?”

After Prof’s roll, he said, “Wow, Shark Girl’s on fire tonight.” I was. And when the class was done, I wanted more. But I packed my bag and went home, knowing that next time I wouldn’t have this same experience, and hoping it would come again soon.

Jiu Jitsu Porn?

I woke up this morning next to a warm and willing body. Husband nudged closer and wrapped his arm around me, pulling himself on top. He painted my lips with gentle, luscious kisses, the kind that arrive in the morning when, after a night’s repose, everything feels intimate and tempting, the bed and bedclothes a cocoon of velvet. Husband’s body was a study in contrasts— supple yet taught against mine, soft but unyielding, tender and aggressive.

            I was caressing his rough, morning-bestubbled cheeks when it happened. It was like a violation. An attack at the most vulnerable of times. His hand crept around and I tensed up, drawing my elbows in. He tried to embrace me lovingly, moving his hands underneath my shoulder, but he couldn’t; he was blocked. He stopped, regrouped, then tried again. A second time he was blocked. He looked at me quizzically, his expression saying, Am I doing something wrong? Why are you refusing my touch? My elbows drew tighter to me, and I laughed, realizing that my body was acting of its own accord.

            “Were you trying to get the underhook?” I asked.

            “What?” asked my jiu jitsu-clueless Husband.

            “Cause you can’t have the underhook.” I said matter-of-factly.

            And I pummeled my arm under his, gaining control of his left shoulder.

            ‘Okay,” he said, and relaxed his arm over mine, unaware of the advantage he was giving me, returning my words with his beautiful, pliant kisses.

Age is Catching Up With Shark Girl!

I am feeling old. It’s not my high cholesterol or failing eyesight. It’s not my kidneyberg and all that’s put me through. It’s not that even now, two years after my LCL tear, every once in a while my knee tweaks and I have to take a break from jiu jitsu. It’s not the milestone birthday—45—precipitously approaching. It’s not even my training partner at the gym calling me “Old Bag.” Nope. None of those things. Dear Reader, what has pushed me over the edge of realization this past six months is . . . fat knees.

 

Why don't mine look this cute?

Yes, you read right. Shark Girl has fat knees. Not phat knees. That would be okay, welcome, actually. No, fat-with-an-eff knees.

This is where you all go, “Shark Girl. You are crazy. I’ve seen your profile pic and you are about as fat as Meghan Trainor is ‘All About That Bass.’”

At least she's got all the right junk in all the right places!

If you look at me—or my profile pic—it is hard to miss that I am small. Tiny. Minuscule, really. So tiny that third graders feel compelled to comment on my stature.

“Your mom is really small!” A friend of my 8-Year-Old Son commented to him. Great. I thought that when I left elementary school I would stop getting picked on by elementary school children. Apparently that was not in the cards for me.

But however small I may be, the other day when I was in downward dog, I noticed some skin draping gently down from my thigh and cascading over my kneecap. It was like my knee had a muffin top. I touched it. It was jiggly. It felt like whale blubber. I lifted it up. It fell back down. What the fuck! 

I’ve always had meaty thighs. It’s part of the Mediterranean childbearing curse. But my thighs are strong and muscular and nothing has ever drooped on them before. Now, apparently, they have mud flaps.

“Honey,” I lamented to Husband.

“What is it now?” He replied.

<sigh> “I’ve got fat knees.”

“No, you don’t”

“Yes I do.”

“Show me.”

“Here.” And I pointed to my little puffs of flesh.

“Hmmmpff,” he commented, putting on his reading glasses to get a better look.

“See?”

“That’s nothing,” he replied, putting his glasses away.

“And look at this cellulite!” I added, because clearly he wasn’t giving me the reaction I wanted. (Does he know better, or has he learned from experience?)

“Honey, that’s always been there.” (Nope. Nothing learned from 18 years together.)

“Well, what the hell am I going to do about my fat knees?”

I don’t think there is anything non-surgical I can do about my fat knees, and that is why I feel old. I am not fat. I am not out of shape. I am old. My skin is stretching and sagging and forming new shapes. I am not sure what this means for my bikini bod, but it can’t be good news. Thankfully, gis cover the knees.

Modern Zealot of Exercise?

Back in October, I read Why Are Americans So Fascinated with Extreme Fitness? It wonders why people do extreme sports and calls those involved in them “modern zealots of exercise,” claiming they feel that

 It’s not enough to look good and feel good if you’re not prepared to lift a Mini Cooper off an injured stranger.

It got me thinking: Am I a modern zealot of exercise? What the fuck am I doing, doing Brazilian jiu jitsu? Does a middle-aged Mom really need to know how to break someone’s arm and choke the breath out of them? Really? I mean, I understand it is a useful tool in case I were physically threatened. And it does give me confidence. But sometimes I wonder if this confidence is misplaced: What could I really do if a huge dude attacked me? Not much. 

Tauriel may rock as a fictional fighter, but in real life, her arms would have been broken so many times in this scene. Trust me.

Now, if Mr. Furley from Three’s Company tried something, I’m pretty sure I could do some damage.

Let’s face it, besides exercise, I basically use jiu jitsu to intimidate Husband when he tries to get frisky. Oh, really, are you sure you want to put one arm in, one out, Love? You know what that leads to, and it is NOT a smile on your face!

So, why the hell do I do it? Let’s see, when I did aerobics, I worked out two hours a day (back in the 80s, pre-kids, pre-job, and nothing else to do). As a runner, I started doing marathons and half marathons. Yep. That pretty much sounds like extremism. Of course I would be drawn to the martial art that pits me mano a mano against everyone in the world, no matter what their size, shape, or sex.

  The article goes on to imply that sated and safe humans are looking for ways to recreate the thrill of the wild. That’s kind of my take on amusement parks—why would anyone want to pretend they are free falling from a 20-story building? How is that fun?

It's not fun. She's terrified!

For Shark Girl, I am not recreating primal urges or satisfying an ancient calling for the exhilaration of the hunt. Dear Readers, it is about power. As someone who stands under 5 feet tall, who has always been the smallest everywhere, whom people, in their “charming” way, patronizingly measure their children against to check growth: “Oh, Six-Year Old, stand next to Shark Girl. Wow! You are almost as tall as she is!” (Yes, I, an adult woman, am constantly asked to measure myself against very young children to show that they have surpassed my stature. *sigh*)

For SG, running marathons and training jiu jitsu are about having the power that in the larger society I feel I lack because I am a small female. I may be tiny but I can run a marathon. I may be a full-grown adult who is smaller than your elementary school child but don’t mistake that for weakness.

And of course, the person I am trying to convince most is myself.

Everyone gets on the mat for different reasons. When I realized what mine were, it helped me lighten up about my training, become less hard on myself, and enjoy it more. It gave me the power I was looking for--power over myself and my choices.

Happy New Year, and Happy Training. May you all find what you are looking for in your extreme practice!

Summer . . . Interrupted

Well, I’ve been away from Jiu Jitsu for about a week. That makes me mad. Mad, I say. Mad with Hulk-like rage and anger.

 

Things were going well. Too well, if you know what I mean. My physical therapist had graduated me from my knee instability sessions, which were starting to bore me anyway. Their only saving grace was that the therapist watched The Food Network. Shark Girl, who lives without the magic of cable television, could drool over Ina Garten’s latest food fetish, or wonder why Rachael Ray didn’t seem quite as enthusiastic as she had in years past. Was it Botox keeping her from emoting over that swish of EVOO?

I had started my summer regimen of running, too. The miles were creeping up every week, and by golly, my middle-aged belly was starting to show signs of a kind of 6-pack, albeit one with some plushy insulating material around it, just to keep it cold.

And then it hit me: an elbow. Right at the back of the head. With a loud thwack. No pain. No spinning, just, well, weirdness.

I sat up to see the couple-next-door looking at me concernedly.

“Are you okay?”

“What happened?” Shark Girl asked.

“We rolled into you. Sorry!”

“Oh. I think so. I think I’m okay,” Shark Girl responded tentatively. “I’m not hurt. I’m not spinning. But something doesn’t feel right.”

Shark Girl went home.

“That’s it,” I said to Husband. “I’m done. I can’t do BJJ anymore.”

“No you’re not,” said Husband.

“Yes, I am. The universe is trying to tell me something. I can’t be doing this. I’m a freaking middle-aged woman with kids. I’m killing myself. Probably giving myself brain damage. I was fine and healthy before I started BJJ. Now it’s always something. It’s either a sprained finger, or an unexplained rash, or a storm of kidney stones, most likely jostled loose from some damn mat throw. Now I’ve gotten a concussion, probably. This is ridiculous. I’m too old for this. I should take up tai chi. I’m going to take up tai chi.”

“No, you’re not,” replied Husband, gently.

“Yes, I am. . . . Why not?”

“Because. You’d be bored.”

He’s right. That’s the problem. I’d be bored to death. I would die right in the middle of one of those graceful, peaceful, arcs of the arm. On the spot. Dead. Dead of boredom.

Which one will Shark Girl be?

But, what the fuck? A week after that fateful elbow thwack, here I am, feeling much more like myself, but experiencing strange head and neck twinges. Certain pitches rattle my left eardrum painfully and I have to keep yelling at my kids to stop yelling, even though they are using their indoor yelling voices, which wouldn’t usually faze me since I have pretty much given up on parenting.

Last week Husband forced me to see the doctor. “It will ease your mind,” he said.

After relaying some epic tale of his father having a strange household head injury that left him foaming at the mouth, the doctor proclaimed I had a “boo boo.” Yes, a “boo boo,” like I was a three-year old who skinned her knee on the playscape.

There is nothing that pisses me off more than interrupted training. I’m not good at taking time off. I’m even less good at relaxing. Why does this always happen to fucking Shark Girl? Why can’t tai chi be more interesting? Oh, well, I guess some mysteries will never be explained. And that’s why Shark Girl is so mad!!!

Adventures in Gym Visiting

This holiday weekend, I visited family. Cousin of Shark Girl was there, too.

            “Hey, Cous,” I wrote him in an e-mail sent while I was packing, “Should I bring my gear or what?” We like to train together at nearby gyms when we are together.

            “Absolutely! My friend’s getting some people together tomorrow.””

            I packed my gear bag and hopped in the car.

When we are in our hometown, Cousin and I usually train at a local gym that an old high school buddy of his goes to. They are welcoming and friendly, if not a little aggressive in their jiu jitsu style. Cousin’s friend always sets up impromptu open mats for us, inviting whoever can make it. No mat fee required, just collegial rolling.

            The next day, Mother of Shark Girl fed my kids breakfast and I made sure that Husband was awake. I threw on my gi and drove to the basement gym where we were meeting. I was a few minutes late.

Three bowls of Lucky fucking Charms? What kind of nutrition is that, Ma?

Down in the basement, things were just about to start. The music was playing, Cousin and his friend were there, and two other white belts, one a woman. Cousin had dragged along his elementary-aged nephew to get him out of the house. Everyone was warming up on the mats, so I joined them in mid-stretch, trying to catch up.

            Cousin is a brown belt and was the ranking person in the room.

            “How long do you want the rounds to be?” his friend asked him. “You are the guest.”

            A couple other folks trickled in and I was pleased we had a good number for some round changing. The last time I was here there were only four of us and I went back and forth between Cousin’s friend and this crusher of a dude who pretty much made me hold my breath the whole time.

            When the round started, I was standing closest to this twenty-something, buzz-cut-wearing, goatee-bearing, tatt-sporting dude with an unadorned white belt.

            “Hey,” I offered with a tilt of my head. “Wanna go?” Around the room, the others were doing the same pairing dance.

            “Uh . . . ye-aah . . . I wanna see who’s open,” he said, looking away toward the others.

            You want to fucking see who’s open? Dude, I’m open! Shark Girl thought. But Shark Girl just looked quizzically at him as he moved on to see if my brown-belted cousin was available. Cousin had already partnered with his friend, and so Buzz Cut snagged the other white-belt female. Shark Girl, stunned by his words, had lost the chance to partner up.

            Cousin’s nephew was punching the bag, so I joined him, giving him pointers and he showed me the elementary jiu jitsu moves his uncle had taught him. Well, at least I can bond!

            The next round, I rolled with Cousin’s friend, a lovely, large man who knows enough jiu jitsu to rely on it and not his strength. I ended up working my guard, which he had trouble passing, and when I got on top, he was quick to prevent my side control. Buzz Cut rolled with Cousin.

            At this point I was chastened to ask others to roll. Hey, I'm no brown belt, but I was the second ranking person in the gym, by quite a few stripes. Looking around the basement, I saw Buzz Cut orbiting Cousin like he was some hot, A-list celebrity.

Slap a brown belt on that, Justin, and Buzz Cut will become a Belieber!

 A one-stripe white belt bounced up to me. “I’m Luke!” He smiled and asked for my hand, er, to tap hands. He rolled like an eager puppy, and I had him ready to choke in about thirty seconds, but I let him escape out of it. No need to crush that enthusiasm!

The next round, everyone had paired up except for me and Buzz Cut. Was he going to approach me? I thought? What would I say? Would I accept, or find a reason to refuse? He was on the other side of the mat and without making eye contact, I headed back to Cousin’s nephew and worked with him on the bag. No need to worry—Buzz did not come anywhere near me. If I sit out two rounds in a row, I’m going home, I planned.

            At the buzzer, Buzz Cut started making his way into Cousin’s gravitational pull. Cousin looked up at me and said, “Let’s go next!”

It’s always a good roll with Cousin. A larger, much stronger, and more skilled opponent, Cousin knows how to roll with a person half his size without compromising the integrity of either of our rolls. Or perhaps he knows that if I get hurt rolling with him, his father will give him a kick in the fanny.

            I rolled a second time with Cousin’s friend and then with another white belt who had showed up. I asked Cousin to help me with a technique that has been clinking around in my head, and he gave me a pointer on defeating side control (bane of my existence).

            Sensing that I had rolled with everyone interested, I recused myself before the next pairing. I cited family statutes of limitations and anger thresholds about to be crossed by Husband if I didn’t return to help rein in our two sons in the toyless and short-tempered environment of their grandparents’ house. I thanked everyone, especially Cousin’s friend for organizing the open mat. I stuffed my mouth guard in my bag, swigged some water, and climbed out of the basement, gi damp with the sweat of several people. Not a bad Fourth of July!

Shark Girl Doesn't Get Lucky

Shark Girl woke up, and went to the bathroom. I looked in the mirror and my jaw dropped in horror. Oh, no! I thought to myself.

            Staring back at me, besides my drawn and tired face, was a red splotch on my neck. A red splotch! That could only mean one of two things. Hickey. Or rash.

            It is a sad statement on my life that, when posed with those two options, rash is the more logical one.

I thought back to last night. I racked my brain. Is there any possible way I could claim hickey? Was I involved in some midnight tussle that I knew nothing about? Not only because it would make a way cooler story, but really, more importantly because it would mean I wouldn’t have to cover up my neck at jiu jitsu this evening.

Alas, no such luck. And even if so, Husband is not the neck-bruising kind. But, I’ve got two young boys. One of them refuses to wear shoes outside. But keeps on his socks. The other thinks that cooked spinach tastes better when eaten with one’s fingers Who knows what crazy shit they drag into my house. And with my medical luck these days, well, I am sure to catch it. Sigh. There will be Band-Aids and bandages, and lots of explaining tonight at jiu jitsu.