ass-thumping
Tuesday, February 8th, 2005There are things that practitioners of martial arts do not tell women. They tell you to wear comfortable clothing that covers your entire body, for instance, and not to wear jewelry that can get snagged on clothing or skin. They do not tell you that rolling, standing, falling, and getting thrown are not compatible with the Thong, and that a few panty lines during the course of your workday is preferable to the kind of proctological spelunking you will otherwise experience during the rolling, the standing, the falling, and the getting thrown.
They will not warn you to wear an undershirt with a built-in bra instead of, say, a lacy little number from Victoria Secret or even a sports bra. It does not occur to them that a woman might wear something lacy and revealing — a distraction for the person facing the woman whose gi will (inevitably) fall open to bare a good deal more than Victoria meant to keep Secret. It will never cross their minds to tell you to bring a pair of shoes to wear after class — not high heels; something stable, like flip-flops — because a few vertigo-inducing rolls and some clumsy blows to the head can do things to your center of balance that Picasso and Dali couldn’t do with paints and cocaine.
Women, consider yourselves warned. And take to heart the note about thong underwear. My colon may never be the same again.
I have been religious about attending Aikido classes lately, and while it’s too early to really preen about this — a week and a half does not a trend make — this is still enough of an uncharacteristic freak that I feel it merits some recognition. Of the six days of class offered last week, I attended five: six classes in all, since I attended both the early and late class on Friday, effectively guaranteeing my weekend would be spent wallowing in pain.
The Guy is both resigned and proud, as is his function as my husband; resigned because dinners are now afterthoughts, concocted from haphazard discoveries in our freezer, whereas before we at least pretended to care, even if ‘caring’ was just me calling him at 5 pm to ask, “What should we have for dinner?” so he could reply, “Screw it. Let’s go out.”
He is proud because exercise is exercise, and any activity at this point is a victory for the Tarapins of Righteousness, which are not to be mistaken for the Monkeys of Sloth and Apathy who frolic hand-in-hand with the Chipmunks of Obesity and Diabetes Type 2. Being my husband, he is obligated to say that he wants me to live a long time. I have tested his self-preservation instincts on this, and they are sound; he may be thinking other things, but he has yet to blurt out, “God, I hope not,” when asked he wants me to live a long life. Exercise seems to be, by popular consent, one of those things that end up helping one in that regard. I am not convinced. My father always swore that beer led to longevity, and he was a black belt who died at 50. Empirical evidence is lacking.
I am studying towards my first belt test, which is (not coincidentally) one of my New Year’s Resolutions. Sensei, head of my dojo, has been watching my efforts with a certain benign bemusement. I suspect that I entertain him as much as I appall him; enthusiasm aside, I have been cutting a disturbingly wide swathe of pain through the black belts of his class. Several evenings ago, one had to leave the mats because his foot was gushing blood — it’s possible that I accidentally ripped out part of his toenail — while this evening I stepped on the same black belt’s foot, and inadvertently punched another one in the face.
One could argue that black belts, being better trained than I, should know better than to get in the way of my foot or my hand or, dare I say it, my head. I’m fine with blaming the victim. In each case, the black belt concerned was kind enough to take their injuries in good spirit; the one I punched said charitably that at least I hit what I was aiming at. The one whose foot I mangled showed great self-restraint and did not point out that I was supposed to be sparring with someone else, instead of ripping off the toenails of harmless bystanders.
In both cases, Sensei watched with the baffled amusement of, yes, an innocent bystander watching Tweety Bird take down the WTO. At one point he commented that I was dangerous. I’m fairly certain I know how to take that.
And I’m getting worse.
That isn’t to say that other people are the only ones to get injured. I have, for instance, taken some extensive bruising on my legs. I have strained a muscle in my buttock and been nearly unable to walk for ten days. I have hit my head, banged my arms, wrenched my shoulder, and gotten burned on my right hand.
None of these injuries have been taken in Aikido.
An intelligent person would come to the conclusion that I am (1) clumsy; and (2) a menace.
The black belts in my dojo are intelligent people.
They are also masochists.
Some of the techniques that are on my first test are listed below. I’ve linked to some videos I found online. Feel free to recall that I have problems walking down the street without tripping over stationary objects like fire hydrants and, you know, air. Then watch those videos. Marvel at the kind of bloody-minded optimism that would allow me to think I can do this without a doctor standing by.
I should check my benefits. I wonder what my medical liability coverage is?
Shomenuchi ikkyo (ura and omote)
