It’s A Dick Move--Or Is It?

This was my first night back on the mats post-Covid lockdown.

Last night I rolled with a new white belt, one month in. 

“What do you want to work on?” I asked.

“Breaking the guard and getting to side control,” New White Belt replied.

NWB seems about thirty, not too tall, not too short. Average build, maybe a little meaty. I would guess he’s about 160-170 pounds.

“Well, that will be easy to do on me.” My stubby legs usually they pop open with no resistance. 

I wrapped my legs around NWB, barely connecting my feet together. NWB took a deep breath, stared at the ceiling, went over the breaking-guard steps in his head as he carefully postured up, slid his knee into my posterior, stretched away. My ankles snapped open. I resisted the urge to activate my open guard—this was his learning experience, after all. I waited patiently as he transitioned to side control, leaving gaps large enough to drive a truck through.

NWB worked to side control and exhaled. 

“That was good!” I encouraged him. 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Now you gotta work on your spacing. I could have escaped while you were passing.”

I demonstrated how to keep his knee close to the hip on a punch-through, how to underhook the opposite arm, and how to transition his other knee under the shoulder.

He tried again, maneuvering a little better this time. As he settled into the position he asked,

“Now, what’s that thing you do where you crush the person’s jaw?”

    “Oh?” I replied, not eager for a jaw crushing just then.

“You know, with your shoulder?”

The thought of his extra 60+ pounds driving into my jaw made me say what I said next:

“That’s kind of a dick move.”

He seemed shocked. “Oh, it is? I didn’t know. I’m sorry. Some of the purple belts have been showing me how to really crush someone’s jaw when you’re in this position.”

Oh the purple belts have been showing you? I thought maybe he had seen it on YouTube. But he was learning it from my teammates. I didn’t want to dis them. I also don’t want to end up with a broken jaw when this guy spazzes out during sparring. So I regrouped.

“Oh, I see. Well, with me, it would be kind of a dick move, because you are twice my size. You don’t need to do that to control me. But, if you were rolling with that guy over there,” I jerked my thumb toward to our resident 260-pound black-bear of a mat-mate, “You might need to do that to keep him down.”

I went into side control on NWB and gently crushed his jaw.

“It’s like this: in Jiu Jitsu you want to expend the least amount of energy necessary to control your opponent. If you can do it without the jaw crush, you should.”

So, here’s my working definition, folks: a Dick Move is when you use more force than you need to in order to control your opponent.

. 

Do you have other ways to define a Dick Move? When is it all-is-fair Jiu Jitsu, and when is it a DM? When is someone calling something a Dick Move actually a Dick Move on their part?

Oops, I Mansplained Again!

I got mansplained by a white belt.

I get it. I suck. But at least have the decency to feign respect.

Literally, he tried to tell me why top pressure is important. Thanks, pal. I'm fucking 100 pounds. I think I know a bit about top pressure.

Then he went on to say that, when I have someone in good pressure, I should wait for them to try to escape and then think ahead and catch them in a sub. Again, thanks.

I nodded politely and smiled.

There's more: He said that when he rolled with someone significantly bigger and stronger than him, he took that opportunity to work on his escapes.

I don't know where to even begin unpacking this, but I can tell you that it gave me a stress espresso dream last night.

What is a stress espresso dream, you may ask? Well, Shark Girl takes her espresso seriously, and has spent more time than is rational on coffeegeek.com. I'm not the best barista, but I am the best barista I know.

Here is what a stress espresso dream looks like:

I was using a new espresso machine in public. I was excited to see what I could do with it. But this dude, like, watched me stumble a bit as I was getting used to the new equipment, and then he mansplained how to pull a shot of espresso. Like I don't fucking do that multiple times a day, fuckwad? How do you think I get this goddamned cheery? It's called caffeine.

This morning, I was grinding beans for my morning cappuccino and thinking that 2% milk foamed up much more delicately that fat-free, when I realized: Wait! That dream wasn't about me having a fear of pulling shots in public. It was about that White Belt mansplaining jiu jitsu to me!

Here is the last thing last thing White Belt said during that conversation.

After extolling the virtues of crushing your opponent, he said how much he loved rolling with me because I helped him learn.

You are fucking welcome.

So, here is the hidden meaning behind what he said:

"I can crush anyone I want and that's the way to do it. But, when I roll with you and you don't crush me, I actually learn something."

That's genius, dude. Try connecting the dots backward. When you crush your training partner, you hinder their growth. (Unless, of course, you are expressly working on escaping crushing control.)

So the next time you are on my chest and I can't breathe, maybe you just should ease up. You can make a mental tick mark counting that you beat the 50-year old who weighs half of what you do. But then give us both a chance to learn.

BJJ: Breaking Down Stereotypes!

Last week, I took my son to summer camp in another part of the state. It was at an elite, private school frequented by highly educated liberals. It was tucked away in the intricate byways of a small, rural New England town. 

I wasn’t familiar with the school’s neighborhood. I was looking for a right-hand street sign that I had seen on Google maps the night before. When I came to a bridge and turned left, I realized I had gone too far, but surely there had been no street sign!

“I think we got to turn around, Honey,” I said to Nine-Year Old Son. “We passed it.”

I went a bit further and switched back on the street. It must have been one of the side streets without a sign that we passed, I thought to myself. But I didn’t see the sign!

As we neared where I thought the turn had to be, a school bus was picking up children. I stopped for it. It was the last day of school in this community. There were a bunch of kids getting on the bus, and I noticed one parent turning back to his house from bus duty.

The man was shaven-headed, bearded, muscular and stocky. He was wearing shorts which exposed his tattoo-covered legs. He looked pretty tough.

I flagged him down, and holding up the traffic behind me.

     “Hey,” I asked him, “where can I find [this elite private school]?”

       Here I was, a suburban mom in an outlet store dress, driving a family vehicle, looking for a high-priced school where people send their kids because they think they are too good for the public schools and they have no idea what else to do with their money. I was lost driving in his neighborhood, probably another one of those tourist types.

     “It is right up here,” he said. And pointed down his street. 

     “Thanks! I didn’t see the street sign.”

     “It just came down this morning.” And he motioned to the sign, knocked over on the side of the road.

I executed my turn and dropped off the kid. Then I went to a high-priced spa nearby and spent the day getting a facial and a pedicure, drinking cucumber water and soaking naked in a big pool of hot water before returning to pick up my son at the end of his day. 

Aah! So refreshing! Especially when there are no children around!

I saw the man on the way back, picking up his kid from the bus. I beeped and waved. It seemed like the friendly thing to do.

***

The next day, I dropped my kid off at camp and visited a local jiu jitsu class. I walked on the mat and said hello to a very welcoming bunch of folks.

”Hey!” One guy said. “Were you looking for [the elite private school] yesterday?” And there he was, my man on the street, gi pants covering up the tattoos that I would have recognized.

A mom from suburbia is also a Jiu jitsu player; a big, tattooed jiu jitsu strong man is also a suburban dad. Aren’t we all the same really in the end? We are human beings making our way in the world. Jiu jitsu can show off our differences, but more importantly it can highlight how we are the same.

What we look like on the outside . . . may not be what is on the inside!

Desperately Seeking Fresh Meat

 Oh, get down off your high horse. You know you feel the same way.

     Last night, I practically salivated when I saw a family come in, looking to sign up. An older dude, kind of on the small side, and his youngish son, destined for more muscle but right now stuck in that awkward puppy stage, with too-big paws and a gangly lope. The promise of their mother, too, a new female partner. Will she be small and wiry, or Swedish-masseuse burly? Who cares?!? Fresh Meat!

     I am at the stage of my jiu jitsu career where I might as well be pregnant. You see, I don’t really eat a lot of meat, and never beef. But when I was pregnant, I couldn’t stop shoving the stuff down my gullet. My body was saying, “Give your brat some protein!” And I did. That year, I think I single-handedly ate the whole Thanksgiving turkey.

Mmmm! I love me some unicorn!

     That is how I feel right now about newbs—the more the better. Yes, I am frustrated when they come in with their hefty muscles and their guns blazing. But, they can’t all be like that, right? And even if they are, I figure I’ve got a couple months tops to outsmart them before they figure out enough technique to add to their strength and foil my jiu jitsu plans.

     Right now, I need practice, I need to play around. And with the boys at my gym, I can’t really do that. I just hold on for dear life. I need some training partners that I can dangle on the end of my paw while I try to figure out exactly the right angle I need to get that sub just right.

     

     

Where Have All the Small Dudes Gone?

My gym has had an influx of new people coming in to try out BJJ. This is always an exciting time—new people to test our skills!

It’s not that I don’t like the old, regulars, but as my skills improve, so do theirs and sometimes it feels like I am standing still. You know, like when you are driving alongside another car that is going the same speed and if you look out quickly and don’t see the trees whizzing by, it looks like no one is moving at all. It’s like that.

So when the fresh meat comes in, I get excited. ‘Cept for one thing. I swear, every person to walk through my gym’s doors in the past month or two has been HUGE. I mean MONSTROUS. GARGANTUAN. Like, picture that skyscraper in Dubai:

now add some girth, maybe to equal the width of , oh, I don’t know, the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man? 

Strap a gi on him and he looks just like our new guys!

                                 

Shark Girl is petite. Think of the smallest person you know. Now shrink that person down about half size, and add extra-large calf muscles and some child-bearing hips, and, if I’ve been neglectful in my waxing, a little Mediterranean fuzz on my upper lip. Now, close your eyes and put the two images of me and The New Guy side by side. *sigh* Here we go again.

I love new people. I just wish some of them were smaller, so I could actually practice a damn sweep. Or roll with them and not worry about cracking a rib or breaking something important. Big Dudes take so goddamned long to train, and it’s not a given that I will ever be able to train safely with them, to trust myself to them as a training partner. And if I do train them well (‘cause it’s usually my responsibility) then I always wonder, What am I really capable of? Am I getting an unfair advantage? I know it is silly, but if you read my last post about being a zealot, you understand that it is not enough for Shark Girl to be a bad-ass jitser (which I am definitely not, but I can dream, can’t I?), but I have to be bad-ass against the biggest, toughest, most fearsome foes that walk the mat, and not get hurt. See? I may not have the typical female issues, but mine are almost as impossible as looking like those girls in the magazines with their airbrushed facial lines and their plumped up, oiled body parts and their digitally-whittled waists. 

Wait 'til Paper Magazine gets a load of my sick Jiu Jitsu moves! Imagine the centerfold they will do of Shark Girl!

I was sparring with a man on the larger side the other day. Someone who has been working hard to train well with me and I am grateful for that. He had a worrisome look on his face.

     “Hey, what’s up?” I said.

     “Not much,” he replied.

      (Tap of Friendship)

      He sighed, looking me up and down, not sure where to start.

     “You know,” he said, “you are the hardest person here.”

For those big guys who really try to spar well with us little people, I understand it is difficult to suppress their God-given muscle and strength. And I want all you big guys who try to know that I, Shark Girl, appreciate your efforts immensely. Thank you, Big Dudes who really try to roll well with the wee folk, thank you.

However, I still hope when I see a new car in the parking lot, it’s owner will be under 175 pounds. And I am looking forward to the return of some good (small) friends who left the gym a few months ago for financial reasons and have promised to return in the new year.

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!

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!

Fresh Meat

We have a new guy in class, one I like to call Tommy Tae Kwon Do. Tommy comes to jiu jitsu with multiple degrees on his tae kwon do black belt. He is starting jiu jitsu for “something different.” And, he is a Big Dude.

It pretty much always matters.

I am in a good place with one of my Big Dudes. After years of unproductive and difficult rolls, he has loosened up. Instead of imprisoning me in a horrible, crushing mount, he now tries to get his submission du jour on me. This is infinitely better, because I can actually work on some defense. On the down side, I usually wind up in a weird position where, if he hips in, my spine will crack, or my hip will dislocate. But, I just tap.

            “You’re tapping?”

            “Yep.”

            “For what? I didn’t think I had anything.”

            “If you hipped in, you would have broken my spine.”

            “Nooooo. That’s not possible.”

            “I’m pretty sure it was.”

           

            We even have this meta-tap. When I’m in such a position, I say, “Wait!”

            “What is it?”

            “I just want you to know that if you hip in, you will break my spine. I don’t think that’s what you are going for. So, please continue your attack trajectory, but DO NOT hip in. Good luck.”

            And then I concentrate on staying immobile while he figures out his move. Sometimes afterwards, we work on a particular point or explore an alternate scenario.

            This guy is large and strong, with those clearly-defined muscles unwrapped in body fat. He is what my boys would call, “not soft.”

Last week Oldest Son said that I had “fat thighs.” Oldest Son is twelve and 50 pounds soaking wet, so “fat” is a relative term here.

            “You think my thighs are fat?”

            “Yeah, but that’s what makes you soft.” He said approvingly.

This big guy is not soft. And he is really tall and leggy. He usually ends up clinging to my back, wrapping his hard, fibrous legs twice around my midsection.

            The other day we were in such a position. I think he had figure-foured my midriff  up to his knee.

            “Tap!” I screamed, before lungs popped out of my mouth and I was no longer capable of speech.

            “What? That’s not even a submission!”

            “Apparently it is, ‘cause I am tapping!”

He stopped and we started over. See? This is much better than being compacted like yesterday’s trash.

It has been a long road to this level of understanding. So when a newb comes in, threatening to bust out his crazy speed and strength on my 0-Petite ass, you can bet that I sigh great “here-we-go-again” sighs. How many injuries or near misses will I have to sustain before he gets it?

            Some people refuse to train with the newbs. I want to educate him. I want to teach him how to roll with me, because we are a small gym and I can’t afford to have another bad training partner. So I find myself saying, “Slow down,” a lot, and, “Remember, if you find that you need to use a lot of strength and power, you probably need to work on the technique.” That’s my nice way of saying, “If you have to blast it on a 100# short girl, you don’t fucking have it, dude! And, it means I won!” Of course to Tommy Tae Kwon Do, it probably sounds like I am saying, “I’m a girl, and I can’t win unless you go easy on me.”

It is always great to see new people in the gym. New sparring partners. New possible people to practice on. It can also be a little scary, if they are big dudes that are not sensitive to a wee lass and her bird-like bones. 

No Mercy

Big Dude was crushing me. Completely. I was trying to stay alive on the bottom, keeping my elbows in tight. Big Dude was forcing his hands between my elbows and legs. I was holding on tight. Big Dude was crushing my chin to get a choke. I held firm.

As a little person my strength is my speed and agility, and well, my tininess. Just a little space, that’s all I needed, to wriggle out of this mess. This Big Dude in particular is good at closing the gaps. Our rolls usually end up with me on the bottom of mount trying to fend off his attacks which are always backed by muscle. This is where I was now.

Suddenly, there was some space. Enough for Shark Girl to slip out. Quick as I could, I torqued my body and got to my knees. What I saw I couldn’t believe. It was Big Dude’s back. And he wasn’t moving. Why isn’t he turning toward me? I didn’t know, but I didn’t have much time. I threw my right arm around his neck. Is his chin really up? Am I really connecting with his throat? I grabbed my left biceps. Am I getting a choke? There’s no way. There’s no way. He’s going to throw me off of him. But his chin was up. It happened too fast. He made a mistake. I had the choke. I knew it. I could feel it.

So, what was the point in choking? I had it. Most of the time, if I have a sure submission, I just go through the motions and let it go, continue the roll. Plus, choking him could possibly emasculate him, make him feel bad, drive him to use more muscle the next time we roll.

I know, in a perfect world, our guy training partners wouldn’t feel that way. They would be excited for our victories, our triumphs, our progress. But let’s face it, no matter how much we say, “If a smaller, weaker, skilled person couldn’t tap out a larger, stronger opponent, then it wouldn’t be jiu jitsu, it wouldn’t be worth studying, it wouldn’t work,” most guys have a thing against women tapping them out. I’ve learned this in my time on the mat.

So here Shark Girl was. This was what was going through my mind. I had the choke. Solid. It was a victory, I knew it. Did he need to? To choke or not to choke. I pushed my elbows together just a bit to see the reaction. He was fighting. Hard. I pushed them a little more. Maybe he’ll acknowledge that I’ve got it. He braced. I pressed my elbows together more closely. He was still resisting. Should I finish it? Or let it go?What should I do? I’m guessing most guys when they roll don’t have this internal conversation with themselves. I’m guessing if they have a submission, they finish it. Maybe I’m wrong. I wouldn’t know. I’m not a guy. But Shark Girl was thinking fast.

I thought of how often I’ve had to stop reacting to him for fear it would encourage a muscled response that might injure me. How many times had I avoided rolls with him because I knew it would wind up with him on my back with his long legs twined around mine while I bucked and struggled and he used his muscles to force my chin up to get a choke he didn’t have because my chin was down? How many times had I lain motionless for minutes at a time underneath him while he tried to break my solid defenses to no avail, yet continued to stay on top forcing himself, wasting my roll completely because he wouldn’t move from his dominant, albeit useless, position, and upon realizing this, resorted to crushing something—anything—of mine to get me to move an arm or a chin?

Oh, I remembered, Chest in. And I tapped that motherfucker out.

Too Legit to Quit

“I usually try to visit another gym when I go away,” I told my gym-mate last night. “I’ll do it alone, but it’s much more fun to go with someone.”

            “I hear ya,” replied Gym-Mate, a largish, solid, shaven-headed man whom I could be afraid of (if I didn’t know him or jiu jitsu) and saw him while walking down a darkened, deserted street. In reality he is my sweetest, gentlest, and most good-natured classmate.

            “It can be awkward,” he continued, “going alone. Everyone else knows each other and they always pair up.”

            “Plus, they have their own warm-ups . . .” I added.

            “ . . . and everyone knows them except you . . .” he finished.

            “Yeah, and there I am, looking like a fool, trying to get the crazy warm-up right. Oh, I’ll go, but it’s much more fun with, say, Cousin Of Shark Girl. At least if there is someone else who feels the same out-of-sorts, it’s more comfortable, easier to laugh about. Plus,” I said, “as a woman, I often get really weird reactions when I go alone.”

            “Really?” Gym-Mate asked.

            “Really.” I recounted some of them, (including this one.)

            “Wow. That’s crazy. ”

            “I know. People are like, ‘Who is this tiny, middle-aged woman, and why is she here?’ They think I’m spying for the NSA or something.”

            “Yeah, but then when they roll with you, they know you’re legit.”

Wow. Legit. That word made my day. You see, I am a tiny, middle-aged woman. And I’ve never ever been remotely legit in any athletic context. Sure, I have done some marathons and half marathons in my day. But I wasn’t ever legit. I couldn’t hang with “real” runners. I’m slow and plodding. I get the job done, sure. But that’s about it.

Growing up, I was the four-eyed kid whom noone wanted on their team, because, well, I sucked. Hell, I wasn’t even legit in my kindergaten dance class. Mrs. C., my instructor, tried to hide me behind the hulking, ogrish girls because I “didn’t know the steps.” (“But I can’t see her,” Mother of Little Shark Girl complained.)

Maybe I would have been legit in aerobics. I went to town on them in the ‘80s, but in the late ‘90s the dance steps got too effing fancy for me. Give me some Paula Abdul and a hot pink and green step and I am so legit—except when I miss the step on the way down and roll an ankle.

 That's me wayyyy in the back. . . . This is long but hold out for Alan Thicke's painful jokestering.

So, thank you, Gym-Mate, for your unassuming compliment. It meant so much to me, perhaps because I have always struggled with the mediocrity of my athleticism, and because now, in my 40s, I have found, quite by chance, a sport that suits me, and I long desperately not to be mediocre in this, too.

Folks, in the coming weeks Shark Girl will be going on vacation, and you know what that means. If you see a tiny, middle-aged woman coming in to visit your gym, she could be legit!

Added Bonus

Here's another tidbit for you. I definitely see how the 1988 Crystal Light Aerobics Championship influenced early-90s dance moves.

  Don't you wish the godfather of jiu jitsu would give you gi pants?

Use of Excessive Force

If you have been reading Shark Girl, you know that the only thing I hate more than 30” of snow is being muscled by a big dude (you can read some of my previous tirades here and here. I also especially liked this one from leaahh).

At an astonishingly small 4’11”, pretty much everyone is a big dude to me. Most of my classmates are great about working their technique when they roll with me. Some of my favorite rolling partners weigh in at over 250lb (113 kg). But then there are a few guys that I pretty much want to, well, choke out. I have dropped hints, told them directly, stopped rolling with them, all that $h!t. Nothing works.

Let me describe a typical roll with this kind of d-bag training partner (DBTP for short):

1.      DBTP works to get some kind of mount or side control

2.      DBTP uses their body weight to flatten me out.

3.      DBTP goes for a submission.

4.      DBTP can’t get a clean sub because I am in high defense mode.

5.      DBTP keeps their body pressure on me, fearful that any space they give will be used as an escape route.

6.      DBTP crushes their forearm into my jaw to try to move my chin up and steal a choke

7.      This usually fails so . . .

8.      Shark Girl stops struggling and just lays there because I don’t want to tire myself out

9.      We are at a boring impasse.

10.  Go back to #6.

And on it goes in a dull, infinite loop until we are so bored I would rather be doing a book report on the Yellow Pages or chatting with my accountant about the new tax codes.

The last time this happened to Shark Girl, DBTP, unwilling to give up his position but unable to submit me, actually entered a conversation (not even about jiu-jitsu!) with some guys sitting on the sidelines. Highly insulted, Shark Girl told him to take a walk.

Anyway, as you may know, I am buried in a cocoon of snow and nursing an injury. I decided to open my copy of Jiu-Jitsu University to a random page to keep myself sharp and see what tips I could pick up. Saulo did not fail me. Here’s what I read:

“Once you decide to use your jiu-jitsu on the bottom without resorting to strength, you will find that you gain confidence as your partner tries to use more and more strength to surpass you. To help with your mental development, try this drill: every time you feel your opponent having to muscle through your defense, take this as a mental victory that your jiu-jitsu holes are getting smaller.”

 —Saulo Ribeiro, Jiu-Jitsu University, p.43

It’s good to know that my jiu-jitsu holes are getting smaller. If only I could make jiu-jitsu a-holes smaller, too.

PS: Pardon my coarse language. Husband was offended that I told everyone to "suck it" in my last post. It's just how I feel in the dead of winter. I promise I'll have more decorum once the sun gets back to my part of the world.

The Adventures of Shark Girl in Jiu Jitsu Land

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!