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!!!

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!!!

Ruptured What? Part 1

 Shark Girl has often wondered what could make her quit jiu jitsu:

The threat of ringworm or staph?
Nope.

Sweaty boys dripping their cooties all over me?
I’m not sure how I managed to deal with this one, but I have. It’s only really gross when you’re not sweaty, too.

Fear of flatulence (someone else’s or—worse—mine)?
Yeah, got over it.

Hair getting caught on the mat?
I sheared my hair short.

Smeared toe polish?
Even though a pedicure is the only way to civilize my Shark feet, high-priced polish jobs spent more time on the mat than me. Out with them!

A wart epidemic?
Compound W is now a staple in my medicine cabinet.

But what about health concerns? Long-term readers may recall the kidneyberg and my constant worries that some big dude will crush my ribcage. But there’s a new one. It’s time for Shark Girl to tell you a story . . . but she’s too tired right now. You’ll have to wait for Part 2.

The Boob Squish

Last week I had my second-ever mammogram, or as I like to affectionately call it, the boob squish. I recall my first mammo: two technicians man-handling my breasts, trying to get all the flesh on the table and then pushing a button to press the plates together. It was a comedy of errors and took forever. I attributed the difficulties they had positioning me properly to my small breastal region, but perhaps my technicians were inexperienced, because last week I met Carol.

           

When I walked into the clinic, I chummed it up with the front deskers. I saw them last week for my kidney x-ray, and Oldest Son was in recently for a chest x-ray. We’re on a first-name basis now.

“Here I am again!” I said to Shanyce.

“Don’t worry; you’ve got Carol. She’s great!” I wasn’t worried; I do Brazilian Jiu Jitsu—I’m used to having my personal space invaded. Plus after giving birth to Oldest Son in front of ten doctors and two nurses I’d never seen before (high risk babies in teaching hospitals bring them out of the woodwork, and I was in no shape to complain), I’m not really the shy type. However, it’s still nice to get the “experienced” tech.

Carol called me in. She was a look-alike down to the jewelry for Oldest Son’s third-grade teacher. There’s a lot of touching in a mammo, and I imagine many people are disconcerted by it. I can tell because Carol starts explaining everything she’s going to do as she does it. “You don’t have to say all that,” I say, but she continues and I realize that maybe it helps her.

Carol is good and I am compliant. It only takes a few snapshots to get all the pictures she needs. “Tell me if it’s uncomfortable,” she says, but I don’t, because it’s really not that bad.

            “Wow! That was like, twenty pounds of pressure!” Carol marvels after our last picture, in awe of the force my boob is taking. My thoughts go straight to Monday night, and the side control my 230-pound friend had on me. Ha! Twenty pounds! I thought to myself. She has no idea!

A New Religion (I'm Back!)

The cruise was relaxing. The new profile pic is me and 8-Year Old Son on a beautiful, Bahamian beach. Don’t we look rested? You will all be happy to know that my new, improved BJJ abs helped my side of the aerobics studio win the Ab Attack class on the ship. We held the plank pose for over 5 minutes. Most importantly, none of my innards broke on me while I was sailing international waters, far from tertiary medical care.

The doctor-on-call gave me permission to cruise after an ultrasound revealed a giant-sized stone squatting in my kidney. This, folks, and the raging infection it produced, is what has been causing my nagging side pain. So I loaded up on cipro and headed off to sea, promising to see my doctor upon my return.

I saw Doctor on Monday. She referred me to a specialist. I asked if I could still exercise. Doctor laughed. “You’re the only patient that asks that. Most people are relieved when I tell them they can’t exercise. Fine, just take it easy.”

            “Okay. I’ve started jiu jitsu, a contact sport. Does that mean no contact sports?”

            “I don’t think you want to get crushed and pushed around. That means no contact sports until you see the specialist and see what he says.”

            “Okay,” I acquiesced.

            I went to the counter and waited as Receptionist made an appointment with the specialist. I can take a little time off, I thought. No big deal. I’ll get an appointment this week, have this resolved next, and I’ll be back.

            Receptionist said, “How’s March 16^th?”

            March 16^th? Like two weeks from now? Did you tell them how big the rock in my gut is? “Ummm, is it okay that it’s so far away?” I asked hopefully.

            Doctor passed by. “Yes. You can wait until then,” she said reassuringly.

            Shark Girl’s thought process went like this: If I wait two weeks and the specialist says contact sports are fine, then I’ve wasted two weeks, haven’t I? And if he says they aren’t, then I’ve got at least another month before I can get back on the mat. I’m not going to wait that long, so why wait at all? Really. This kidney boulder has probably been brewing for years. What will another month hurt?

Yes, Shark Girl’s inner voice started to sound like a crazy jiu jitsu fiend. And then out loud, I said to Doctor, “Okay. But the deal is off. If it’s going to be that long I’m not guaranteeing I will stay away from contact sports.”

            “Come on,” Doctor said scoldingly. “What is this? A new religion?”

           

It’s not a new religion, but it does feel good. I went back to class Monday night and tonight. I warned my classmates that I’m going to be tap-alicious until my ailment gets resolved. They were all very understanding, and actually quite helpful. They offered to jostle me around to break up the stone.