Cute, Cute

“Ooh! That’s cute! Try it on!” said Sister of Shark Girl when she saw me take it out of the package. It was my new Tatami gi, and she was right—it was cute. Despite the splatter of patches that I swore I would never wear, despite that mat blue is not my favorite gi color, it was cute.

            “You have to try it on. Now!” Sister of Shark Girl ordered.

            Shark Girl slipped it on over her shorts and tank and Sister of Shark Girl confirmed, “Yep. Cute. You have to look at yourself in the mirror. Go upstairs and look at yourself in the mirror.”

In case you haven’t figured it out yet, Sister of Shark Girl is a few years older and in the habit of ordering Shark Girl around. Shark Girl usually does what she says without complaint or hesitance. Years of conditioning, and let’s face it: she’s usually right.

Shark Girl went upstairs and looked at herself in the mirror. “Oh my God! It is cute! I can’t wait to wear it!”

So this fall, Shark Girl will sport a new gi. Stay tuned for the review, but for now, you should know that it’s dang cute.

 

Many thanks to Martial Art Supplies for this opportunity to be so fetching while fighting.

It's Hard Being Anonymous

Here I am in NYC--surrounded by BJJ clubs. And no one will have me.

It's not that I haven't tried. I've e-mailed and re-emailed and forwarded e-mails. Some people haven't responded. Some have said, "Yes, you are welcome. Ask So-and-So for more info." And So-and-So hasn't responded. Then some have said, "No, unfortunately, unless you are a member or a member of an affiliate or a guest of a member, or you want to shell out huge money for a private, essentially you are not welcome."

Oh, how I long to wield the power of Shark Girl:
     "Yes, hello, I am Shark Girl. Perhaps you have heard of me or read my wildly successful blog? No? Oh . . . um . . . well . . . ahem. Let me start over. I write a blog and would like to visit your program. Afterward I will probably write about my experience on said blog, thereby giving you lots of free publicity as the cool, welcoming BJJ school you most surely are."

Who would refuse? But I can't do that because then I have to sign that waiver. You know, the one that says if someone kills me, the school isn't responsible. And I have to sign it with my real name. Believe me, I've thought about just putting down "Shark Girl," but something feels illegal about that. And when I say I am just some female blue belt visiting the city, the open arms, well, they are folded.

So instead, I am sitting alone at a restaurant because I turned down invitations to B'way plays in the hopes that someone, anyone, would respond to my BJJ query and let Shark Girl kick some tail (or get her tail kicked) and add to the bruise collection on my legs which is already raising eyebrows at my staid classics professionals conference. "Oh, dear, Muffy! Could it be? Don't tell me that poor woman is anemic!"

Anyway, it's restaurant week and instead of writing a review of that BJJ school, I'll write a review of the restaurant where I am eating. Stay tuned, New Yorkers, you know who you are.

Oh, and BJJ schools, you should really learn to be more open.

Girl On Top

Okay, I admit it. Husband made me use this title. But it’s true: I have been getting on top a lot more lately. If only I knew what to do once I got there.

You see, for the past 18 months, Shark Girl has been a bottom dweller. I started as the only female in my club. I have been routinely crushed and pancaked, flattened and steamrolled. 

I have been muscled and maneuvered, manipulated and manhandled. 

And now, a year and a half later, I feel pretty comfortable on my back, thank you very much. My legs wrap and wriggle with ease and my body twists in the correct angles to prevent an attack and facilitate an escape.

But put me on top . . . and I’m a newbie all over again.

Take this recent roll, which is indicative of many. In it, a new teacher-type rolls with me to assess my abilities.

• Teacher Type lets Shark Girl (SG) get on top.
• Shark Girl sits there and waits. Isn’t he going to do anything? How can I defend if he doesn’t do anything? SG thinks to herself.
• Shark Girl realizes Teacher Type wants her to attack.
• Shark Girl looks down at Teacher Type, catches a flailing arm, and then pauses . . . Now what am I supposed to do with this? I know there’s an armbar here somewhere! Do I have to get this from side or swing my leg over? Why can’t I just choke him? Oh, crap! I wish he’d sweep me already so I can get back on my back!

•  After many awkwardly embarrassing moments of Shark Girl pressing herself against Teacher Type to hold him down and stare at him, SG confesses that she has no idea what to do.

• Teacher Type laughs and comments that Shark Girl’s teammates must beat the crap out of her.
• Teacher Type mercy-sweeps Shark Girl
• Shark Girl springs into action.
• Teacher Type says, “Wow—now you are in your comfort zone!”
• Shark Girl pulls a rad sweep and winds up on top . . .

 Recently, probably due to the influx of like-sized women, I’ve started to catch some of these sweeps and get myself on top. Queen of the hill, if you will. Sounds great, right? But it’s a totally new experience for Shark Girl and I feel more like a flounder.

The Adventures of Shark Girl in Jiu Jitsu Land

Sometimes You Get What You Need

In a commentary on the rush of superhero movies that have flooded our theaters in recent years, this excerpt from Manohla Dargis caught my eye (You can read the full article here):

I like some comic-book movies very much, dislike others. But as a film lover I am frustrated by how the current system of flooding theaters with the same handful of titles limits my choices. . . . The success of these movies also shores up a false market rationale that’s used to justify blockbusters in general: that is, these movies make money, therefore people like them; people like them, therefore these movies are made.

So, in effect, movie studios pour huge money into these films, market and merchandise the hell out of them to recoup their budgets, and when they are successful, they use that as proof that they are giving people what they want. And perhaps they are. But, let’s face it, a lot of what they are putting out is just the same old story with a different costume and different effects. We might prefer something else, but the studios won’t chance losing their cash on a “maybe.” They stick with tried and true and we go to the trough.

Anyway, Dargis got me thinking, “Do we get what we want or want what we get?” Are people asking for these movies and getting them, or are they being fed to us and we are just playing along? And then I read this last piece:

The movie industry . . . persists in recycling maddeningly troglodytic representations of women that its embrace of superheroes has only perpetuated and maybe exacerbated. For all the technological innovations . . . superhero movies just recycle variations on gender stereotypes that were in circulation back in the late 1930s, when Superman and Batman first hit. The world has moved on—there’s an African-American man in the Oval Office, a woman is the secretary of state—but the movie superhero remains stuck in a pre-feminist, pre-civil rights logic that dictates that a bunch of white dudes, as in “The Avengers,” will save the world for the grateful multiracial, multicultural multitudes.

And that’s when I thought about jiu jitsu. Some of you may remember that last year on vacation I called a gym to visit a class and was told by the Gym Leader that I wasn’t welcome because, “well . . . women aren't really interested in jiu jitsu.” 

DBGL?

That man, I’ll call him Douche Bag Gym Leader (DBGL for short), DBGL was asking me to want what he was giving me rather than giving me what I wanted. He wouldn’t even let me be the super sex-symbol chick on the sidelines (which you know I would be). No, he gave me the 1930s “let-me-tell-you-what-you-want, little woman” (which never ends well with Shark Girl).

With a larger society (and some DBGMs) telling us that “strong” women are bitches, aren’t sexy, or at best are sexy but really not effective, is it any wonder that more women are not practitioners of Brazilian Jiu Jitsu?

For most people who start BJJ, practicing jiu jitsu is about gaining strength. Women who join jiu jitsu classes have to gain a lot of strength before we even step out onto the mat. For me, I had to realize that what the larger world was saying about myself was not what I wanted. It goes against all cultural norms about what a 40-year-old, suburban mother of two should be doing with her spare time. For a while I hid it from friends and family—heck, even my blog is anonymous! I had to be willing to go against that cultural narrative. I had to look Hollywood square in the face and say, “I’m the superhero, thank you very much.”

           

Source

Manohla Dargis in “Super-Dreams of an Alternate World Order: ‘The Amazing Spider-Man’ and the Modern Comic Book Movie.” Published in The New York Times Magazine, June 27, 2012.

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.