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.

What Shark Girl Has In Common with the London Sewer!

Husband came home the other day and said, “Have you heard about the fatberg in the sewers of London?” No, I hadn’t. Checking out the status of the London sewers is not on my daily to-do list.  

            “Well, let me tell you all about it!” said Husband, a little more fascinated than he should have been. “You see, they’re formed when people throw fat and wet wipes down their pipes.”

            “Oh, really? That’s nice . . . “ I nodded and smiled, half-listening, half trying to figure out 7-Down on the New York Time crossword puzzle.

            “Yes, and apparently those flushable wipes aren’t so flushable. The fat sticks to them, and then everything else sticks to that, all the waste and stuff, and it all forms a big blockage in the sewer.”

Yum!

            “Uh-huh …” Here goes Husband, demonstrating that “boy” fascination with poop. This morning 8-Year-Old Son had a sixteen-minute guffaw attack at the slight probability that there was diarrhea in a toilet. During breakfast, no less.

            “Yep. It was the size of a 747.”

            “Wait, what? I can’t use those flushable wipes anymore?” Reality was starting to hit me. I love those flushable wipes.

            “Yeah, not so flushable.”

            “Wait, but are people throwing the not-flushable ones down and that’s what’s causing the problem? Or are the flushable ones causing the problem?” I really love my flushable wipes, and it would be nice not to feel guilty using them.

Next they'll tell me I can't flush these!!

           “I don’t really know.”

           “Can they remove the fatberg?”

"Yeah, I guess they go in and unclog it.”

           

I think I understand how that sewer felt when they decided to Roto-Rooter it Terminator-style. You see, right now I am dealing with my kidneyberg, and it’s pretty much the same procedure. But my pipes are a lot smaller, and I’m a little more fleshy and have a few more nerve endings than a sewer pipe.

“Of course, you’ll be able to do whatever you want with the stent in,” the doctor said. “It may be a little uncomfortable, and you may bleed a little..”

            “Even contact sports?” I asked, hopeful not to miss out on too much jiu jitsu.

            “Even contact sports, as long as you are not in pain.”

So, with that, I got the stent in.

And let me tell you: doctors lie. To your face. And that is what I have in common with the London sewer. Neither of us can practice jiu jitsu right now. 

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!!!

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.

Confessional: Little Shark Girl Was a Bully!

Hear, hear, Georgette.

Georgette shared an insightful perspective on rape culture.

In years past, bullying was treated similarly. The victim of bullying was blamed. He or she was told how they should protect themselves from bullies, or retaliate. Or they were told what they should do to not become a target of bullies. Dress a certain way. Speak a certain way. Look at people a certain way. Never be alone.

Back in my day and community, it was considered appropriate for people to make fun of others for their differences. If someone looked or acted differently, then they should be able to “take” the criticism. If they didn’t like it, well they could stop acting so weird. I am not proud of the bullying behaviors I know I participated in when I was younger. I’ve said some terrible, hurtful things to people who deserved my respect. I have reflected much on why I, who consider myself a good person, would have said or done such things. Honestly, at that time I didn’t feel like it was wrong. I never physically hurt anyone! I knew that was wrong! And other people did the same thing, so I felt entitled. I’m not making excuses for Little Shark Girl. I take full responsibility for my 14-year-old actions. I have learned and grown a lot since then, and I promise if I meet you, I will be accepting and tolerant, no matter how fringe you are!

Not that kind of fringe! But I promise, if you are wearing these, I will keep my goddamned mouth shut--no matter how hard it is!

In our schools today, education around bullying focuses on getting the community to be intolerant of bullying, to call out bullying, and to make "bully" a negative word. People are still taught ways to keep themselves safe and not become a target of bullies. But children are encouraged to speak out against bullying and to stand up for people who are being bullied. Does this eliminate bullying? Not at all. People can still hide behind their computer screen and bully away. There are subtle forms of bullying that cannot be seen by onlookers. It does create an environment that is less forgiving and fertile for bullies. It shows “good” people what those “grey” behaviors are so they are less likely to engage in them. If Little Shark Girl had known how hurtful calling someone “gay” was, or how she made that girl whose name rhymed with “vagina” feel, I like to think she would have kept her mouth shut.

The culture we have now can sometimes glorify and condone rape, and I bet there are many "good" men out there that I love and respect that have gotten caught up in the grey area of rape, just like Little Shark Girl did with bullying. Sometimes I think that's why some people protest so much. They are good people, not rapists, and if that grey behavior was rape, well, they have to redefine themselves as a "bad" person. Believe me, it took Shark Girl a long time to come to terms with her past-self's inner bully. This is the first time I've spoken about it in 30 years.

We do both men and women a disservice when we do not educate the entire community about rape. After all, it is not just a woman's or a man's problem. It affects all of us. It is not just a male vs. female problem. It can happen in any combination. To call it a feminist issue is reductionist. It is our issue. And if the way we are dealing with it isn’t working, then we have to try something else.

Of course, there will always be people who will do the wrong thing, but when the larger community actively and publicly scorns a behavior, "regular" people who consider themselves "good people" will not engage in that behavior, and maybe others will think twice. It is clear from the comments Georgette received that our larger community is not at that place yet. 

Spring . . . Backwards?

Dear Readers,

I was going to write this post as a glorious triumph, one of those rare BJJ moments that we work for and dream of. But it seems there is never triumph without setback.

            I was going to write about a beautiful roll I had that confirmed my progress, progress long in the making and progress I doubted I could ever achieve. But then I rolled back to a place I hoped I would never find myself in again, in fact the old aphorism of “two steps back” is more appropriate.

            I wanted to write about how for the first time, I floated outside my body as I rolled and I watched myself and my partner, and I calculated my move. How I trapped him in my guard and eyed his left arm for my Kimura. How when I put my hand on his wrist he pulled back. He was much stronger than I was. I was never going to get that Kimura. But I went for it anyway, knowing it gave me the chance to move my hands to his unprotected neck while he dealt with my threat. I went for his neck, never hoping even to get this choke.

            “When he moves to protect his neck, I’ll try for the Kimura again, and then when he hides his arm by grabbing his pants like he did last time, he will expose his neck. That’s when I will make my move.”

            Well, that’s what happened, and that’s what I did. I successfully set up a decoy and a real attack. I saw all of this from afar, I thought faster than I was rolling. If you are steps ahead of someone, your setup can work. I had never done this before. I know . . . I’m a slow learner.

            That’s what I wanted to write about for you today. But it seems that the Jiu Jitsu Fates have other plans for me, because I find myself back where I was last year, and two years before that, with a knee injured I-don’t-know-how and the Kidneyberg making a feverish comeback. Yes, now, when I can see success and progress more than ever, when I want it more than ever.

Sigh. Bring on the Ben & Jerry's!

NYSFC is my favorite!!!

Jiu Jitsu Therapy

Recently I rolled with one of my favorite training partners (FTP). I love rolling with him because whenever we finish, he compliments me and then points out part of my game that I could work on. Usually he gives a small piece of constructive criticism that might change my game completely. He is a natural teacher, and he rolls with people with an eye to improve their game. How nice of him!

We had a great session and it was only the ticking of the clock and the fear of  Husband's "Where the hell were you, you were supposed to be home a half hour ago," that pulled me off the mat. When we finished, FTP made one of those observations that, well, seem more like therapy than jiu jitsu.

I don't know if anyone else experiences this. But sometimes where I need to go to improve my jiu jitsu game isn't about jiu jitsu at all, but more about my own mental state. Its more about those bad habits that I have to change. More about the comfortable places I retreat to no matter how much I know they aren't working for me. It's about letting go of things that feel so right but are actually not in my favor. It's like therapy.

Sometimes critique isn't like that at all. Sometimes critique is more, "Holy cow! I never saw that before! That's a total game changer. How do I incorporate that into my repertoire?"

But the real, deep observations make me feel like I am talking to a mental health professional. "Yes, I know I shouldn't do that, " I say. "But I can't help myself. I don't know how to stop."

Sometimes when I explore the critique, I realize it is rooted not only in bad jiu jitsu habits, but also in some personal tendency that I have in real life. For example, why do I always stay in guard and not try to escape? Is it because I would rather react to someone in real life than take charge and lead? Because I am more of an introvert? Because I feel that to successfully defend a challenge is better than to make a challenge and have it defeated?

This when jiu jitsu for me becomes very personal, a spiritual journey if you will. One that is best taken with kind, generous, and gentle training partners who are willing to talk, not just about moves and youtube videos, but also about intent and motivation, growth and challenge, success and failure, and all those other things that make jiu jitsu more than just exercise or a sport. Or, we could just smash our way through our day-to-day drills and open mats. But then we miss the real power of jiu jitsu, the one that bring us face to face with who we really are and asks us to decide whether we want to be the same, or whether we want to change, with the help and support of all our FTPs.

Women in Jiu Jitsu

There have been some really good blog discussions lately about whether women should be in jiu jitsu. I’ll admit that I have been paying attention half-heartedly. I feel a bit guilty about it, like I should be putting in my own two cents. But I’ve got my own drama playing out in Shark Land.

 I’ve hinted in my past few posts of a mysterious injury. Nothing to elaborate on, I thought, so I didn’t. Well, it’s been a month and The Injury, perhaps looking for greater billing on my blog, not used to taking a back seat to vacations and margaritas, has started to make some noise.

            I’m not quite ready to describe the incident yet, but I am ready to describe my feelings and my fears.

The Injury was partly my fault and partly my partner’s. When it seemed like The Injury would be minor, I chalked it up to training. But weeks later, as it grows worse and not better, as I wait for results of X-rays and MRIs, as Husband says, “I hate to say it, Honey, but this could be the end of jiu jitsu for you,” as RICE and ibuprofen do nothing but alleviate discomfort for a short while, as all of my cross-training exercises fall off the list of things it seems my body can handle, I have to face that surgery and an extended jiu jitsu hiatus are on the table for me, even if I try to be optimistic.

With every passing day, the chance that my orthopedic surgeon will say, “Just a sprain, just a sprain,” gets smaller and smaller. And this is where it gets complicated. I am starting to resent my partner. Even though it was partially my fault, even though there was no harm intended.

            I fear Husband is right, or that if he is wrong, my jiu jitsu game will be drastically changed, or I will be so changed in my practice that it will no longer be satisfying to me.

            So, should women be in jiu jitsu? Right now that seems like a silly question. My feeling is that this woman, me, should be in jiu jitsu right now. But I can’t.

Rolling with the Dot

Ladies, it’s that time of the month again. And if you’re like Shark Girl, you don’t want to let a little blood coming out of your crotch stop you from . . . oh, crap! We’re not drilling triangles tonight, are we?

Of course we are. Because I’ve got my period. And it’s some law of jiu jitsu that when I’ve got my period, we have to drill triangles, so that I can wrap my leaky regions around some guy’s face. It’s like when all that broccoli you ate last night gasses you up, you know it’s going to be “Knee on Belly Night.”

When I started training, I wondered what I was going to do when “That Time of the Month” showed up. I didn’t worry with other sports. I just popped a tampon in, and if I was really worried, added a pad, and was done with it. In jiu jitsu, my problem was three-fold: I only had my gym-issued white gi; I wondered if a pad could be felt; I was worried there might be womanly scents wafting around.

The first thing I decided was that I needed a black gi. Now I don’t worry about stray blood on my gi, because if it’s there, I can’t see it, and neither can my training partner. Problem #1 solved.

The second and third problems, scent and touch, were a bit harder to get over. It was Georgette (and my advanced age) that let me say, “What the fuck? Why am I worrying about that?” It was in a post (I can’t find it now, but maybe someone else remembers . . . this is a job for Slidey!) where Georgette discussed jiu-jitsu pantsing. You know, another thing we ladies worry about. What happens when your pants come down in jiu jitsu? Her reply was “Guys don’t worry their underwear showing, so I’m not going to effin’ freak out if mine peeks out,” or something like that. And I thought, “She’s right. And guys don’t worry about their periods, so I’m not going to worry about mine, either.” I pay good money for my gym membership and I’ll be damned if I’m going to miss out on 25% of it.

I’m pretty sure some of the ladies at my gym take a pass during their periods. They are mysteriously “gone” one week a month. Kind of like the Jiu Jitsu National Guard.

Now, for those triangles. I’ll admit it makes me a bit uncomfortable, but once I start drilling, I’m really focused on the moves and I hope my teammates are, too. I’m a woman of childbearing age, at least for the next few years. So, if the men in my gym can do math, and if they went to that awkward class in 5^th grade where they explained puberty with puppets, and they see me at the gym without a break, then they must know I’ve got to have my period sometime. It’s a part of life, it’s a part of the human condition. I’m not going to deny it happens or lock myself away.

 Okay, there actually is a puppet musical about puberty. Just thought you would like to know.

As I was writing this, I found this post over at Bunny JiuJitsu that talks about some ways of stopping the flow from getting in the way of your jiu jitsu habit, like a menstrual cup. I’ve never seen one before and will admit to being a little wigged out. Husband hadn’t seen one, either, until he walked in on me googling “menstrual cup.” I wish I had taken a picture of his face to share with you. Priceless.

Step aside, boys. Now there's a cup for women!

Anyway, if any of you lady athletes have experiences with a menstrual cup, I’d love to hear about them, as I’m considering one.

Oh, one last period caveat. Ladies, remember that your ligaments are looser during your period. I wish I had remembered. This morning I hyper extended my knee without even feeling it. I feel it now, and will be taking some time off.

 Here's Ellen to tell you about another great, new product for women!

Jiu Jitsu Submits Migraine!

Yesterday there was a war going on in my mind.

A sinus headache was pressing down on my back teeth. There was also a dull presence in the front of my skull. Not a pounding, but a just-enough-there-to-cause-discomfort throb—the steady reminder that a migraine could blast out at any minute.

It's important to get your Latin verbs right!

To battle this, I downed 600 milligrams of ibuprofen and went on with my day, just as I always do. I am thankful that, while I get hormonal migraine headaches, I usually manage to beat them into submission with ibuprofen before they send me to bed for three days or make me vomit all over the place. Shark Girl uses ibuprofen more than prophylactically. I can’t afford to let a migraine hit while I’m responsible for getting a roomful of twenty-something teens to learn their Latin verbs. So, Shark Girl admits to popping ibuprofen at the slightest hint that a migraine might pay a visit.

But I do try not to use ibuprofen too much. They say that, in the end, ibuprofen will betray you. After years of valued service, it will make your migraines come back more fiercely. I think they call it “rebound,” but it seems more like a pact with the devil—ibuprofen will give you relief today, but then you owe your soul to it tomorrow.

That's me on the left . . .

 The previous night I had gone to sleep with the migraine, hoping it would disappear in the morning. When I woke, that dull feeling was still there, promising me that, with a too-quick turn of the head, or a louder than usual scream from Youngest Child, or perhaps not enough food or the wrong kind of food, I would be relegated to a dark room for the rest of the day. So, I did what any good Brazilian Jiu Jitsu practitioner would do: I took the ibuprofen and went to class. 

I could feel all that sinus- and migraininess as I warmed up and drilled. When we stopped to spar, I contemplated, Should I take an ibuprofen booster? I keep a little bottle of it in my bag. In fact, I keep ibuprofen stashed everywhere—a little Ziploc pack in my coat pocket, a refillable bottle in my work bag, some in every purse. People at work know that if they need some of the good stuff, I can hook them up.

No, I decided. No more ibuprofen. The impending migraine did not seem bad enough or imminent enough to test 800mg, a threshold I’ve never crossed (I think). I crossed 600 after giving birth. They gave me a refillable scrip for these giant 600mg horse pills that conquered any pain I could imagine, and I loved it, and I loved that hospital in Boston for it. When I gave birth a second time, my new hospital tossed me a small bottle of Motrin 200mg. each. “What the hell is this?” I screamed at the top of my lungs in my beautiful, new birthing room to no one who would hear or care. “A train just ran through my vagina and you are giving me OTC ibuprofen?” That’s when I remembered that 200 x 3 = 600. Hooray for math. It really does come in handy.

Back to yesterday. Having decided on no more drugs, I put in my mouth guard, returned to the mat, and sparred. [Insert great video or dramatization or narration of Shark Girl totally kicking ass for about thirty minutes. Oh, hell, just find something cool on Youtube.]

When I walked off the mat and got ready to leave, guess what? No pain. I felt great! No headache or threat of headache. I smiled and skipped out of my dojo. Jiu Jitsu had given my migraine the smack down. I entered my home ready to embrace my perfect nuclear family. Life is really good. I heard the sweet sounds of my lovely children. Sigh. Kids are the best, aren’t they?

“I’m playing with it!”

“No, I’m playing with it!”

“Don’t hit me!”

“I didn’t do anything!”

“Yes, you did.”

“Ow!”

 And then, no, please God, no . . .

 “Aieeeeeeeee!”

. . . the scream. That first-grade, piercing screech. It had a direct line to my frontal lobe. I placed my cool palms over my eyelids for relief. And ran for more ibuprofen.

Ruptured What? Part 2

Warning:

the following story contains “lady issues.”

If you can’t hack it, leave now.

One evening, Shark Girl started getting lady cramps.

            “Hmmm . . . that’s funny. It’s a little early for lady cramps,” Shark Girl said to herself. “Oh, well, maybe I’m wrong. These days I’m too busy to keep good track.”

            As the evening wore on, Shark Girl’s lady cramps got worse. “Better pop a few ibuprofen!” Shark advised herself, and the drugs soothed the pain for a while.

Ibuprofen is my answer to pretty much everything--lady cramps, migraines, boredom . . .

Later that night, Shark Girl besought Husband, “Honey, rub my lower back!” I hadn’t asked him that since I was in labor. Wait. Was I in labor? No, impossible. Shark Girl isn’t Peggy Olson from Mad Men. Shark Girl would know if she were pregnant.

Not Shark Girl.

Shark Girl popped some more ibuprofen and went to sleep. My night was fitful and tormented, filled with strange cramp-induced dreams. I realized I was going to be no use at school that day, and got up early to write plans and call in a sub.

For some reason, LeBron James comes up when you Google Image search "cramp-induced dreams." Huh.

After Shark Girl crafted impeccable, early-morning sub plans, I went back to bed. And slept. When I awoke, the cramps had strangely morphed into constipation cramps. (At this juncture, you may be asking, “Really, Shark Girl? How do you know the difference between lady cramps and constipation cramps? They’re all in the same region.” And now I know you are a man.)
          Maybe I had imagined the lady cramps from the night before and I just needed a little more water. I got a water bottle, put it next to the bed, and drank. Then I drank some more. And some more. Until my bladder was about to explode. At that point, my bladder was starting to press up against my cramp. I know, weird, right? Now I was getting a little nervous.

Also not Shark Girl.

            Then my pain got sharp. Lower, right abdomen sharp. Oh, no! A quick Google search told me I could have anything from appendicitis to viral gastroenteritis, with many other scarier things in between. (I was pretty sure I didn’t have seminal vesiculitis, given that I’m not a dude). It was time for SG to go to the doctor. Although my physician doesn’t work on Fridays, her husband does and he gladly took me as the last appointment of his ending-at-noon day. 

You've read the symptoms; now it's time for you to play doctor!
Take the poll to the right. What do you think Shark Girl ruptured?

The appointment went something like this: 

. . . blah blah blah does this hurt? . . . blah blah blah you’re not in that much pain, so it’s not full-blown appendicitis . . . call the ER if it gets worse . .  . blah blah blah . . . you’ll know.

Off I went home, thinking my appendix could rupture. I made Husband stay home from his business trip. “What if my appendix ruptures at two in the morning? What will I do with two kids and a ruptured appendix at two in the morning?”

          “I could get my mother to stay over?” Husband offered.

          Yes. He actually said that. In fact, he had actually already called her to set it up. At this point I will fast forward to husband making the right decision and staying home. Men, if you are still with me, stay home with your women when they could die. It’s the polite thing to do.

Long story short, my appendix did not rupture, and, by Monday, the pain had nearly subsided. But now I was thinking, Is this a lady issue? Shark Girl decided to call her OB-GYN. Their triage nurse had all the notes from Dr. Spouse (yay, linked medical records!).

            “It sounds like you had a ruptured ovarian cyst.”

Huh. Imagine that. How could anything in my lower abdomen have ruptured? I mean it’s not like huge, muscly dudes are trying to squish my guts all the time . . . or is it?

Postscript

This episode made me rethink rolling with guys who aren’t adept at toning down their squishing. I will never know if this was a BJJ-related rupture, or if it was natural. But a few weeks before, I had a partner squish my innards so badly that it felt like my kidney was outside of my body and between the mat and his knee. The worry I went through was definitely not worth that roll.

I want to implore any big dudes out there, before you go with anyone much smaller than you are, pause and remind yourself that if you have to use that much force on someone half of your size, you could probably stand to work on technique. Save the crushing for your same-sized friends.

And finally, I want to inform. My physician didn’t think of a ruptured ovarian cyst; my Google-searching did, but the descriptions I found were inadequate and only said things like, “can be very serious.” My triage nurse was more chill and told me to come in if it happened again. It hasn't. I am fine, and taking it much easier on the mat.