goodness, life, martial arts

A truth about being a martial artist

Being a martial artist is great for a lot of reasons, not the least of which is that it makes me feel like a total badass.  Being athletic for so long means I’m pretty coordinated, I move gracefully, I don’t trip and fall and injure myself… ever.  Plus, being a female martial artist automatically puts me in a special category, and everyone loves being special.

And all that sounds great, but if I’d be lying if I said that any of those topped my list of why being a true martial artist is worth all the training, sweating and pain. Having been punched and kicked until I bled may sound brutal; having sharp eyes and fast feet that can flash above my own head may sound pretty sweet; but it’s the sum of these skills and experiences that produces the best part of being a good fighter: the quiet.  I’m confident that my training has prepared me to survive (and win) most fights, and I find that to be incredibly soothing.

yes, there is a little solar eclipse in my tummy

I rediscovered this sensation while interviewing someone at Office Job.  I’ve only been there less than a year, so I still feel like the new kid.  However, during the interview, I realized that I would be looked to for counsel on how to handle this situation or deal with that person, and that I could give sound advice.  I’m getting good at my job, and that’s really quite… relaxing.  It’s the same feeling I had when I got my black belts: a sense of pride and confidence.  Of course, when I got my black belts, my body felt like it was pulsating with potential, that the ability to fight (and fight well) practically coursed through me.  It was all I could do to contain it.  It was exhilarating.  My whole body was buzzing with power and fluid motion, and amidst all that there was a still, quiet core to keep me from flying in all directions.

That buzzing feeling has faded to a hum, but its silent anchor remains.  The best part of being a true martial artist is the silence.

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badness, martial arts

No one makes me bleed my own blood!!

As I’ve mentioned before, Saturday is the only day I have completely off.  On my other day off I spend four hours at the Kung Fu studio teaching, sweating, and learning ancient ways to become even more of a badass.  There weren’t many people around for Thursday night’s intermediate class, so it morphed into a wrestling/sparring class.  It was pretty fun.  I got roped into doing the Saturday sparring class.

Naruto knows exactly how I felt

When I mentioned to Diminutive Roommate that I’d be sparring for the first time in five years, she was confused.  She thought sparring took place during regular classes.  She couldn’t figure out how I’d been teaching all this time, and hadn’t sparred even once.  So let me take a moment to describe sparring the way it’s generally taught at martial arts schools.  Traditionally, sparring is when two trained martial artists throw on some gear (gloves, shin pads, head gear, mouth guard, chest padding, etc.), and exchange controlled hits to test their reflexes.  No one’s going for a knock out, or even attempting to injure their partner.  To do so would be disrespectful, and defeat the purpose of the exercise.

Or so I thought when I said I would be happy to attend a Saturday sparring match.  I was mistaken.  Before this class, I had never attended a sparring session where it was acceptable behavior to:
-intentionally and repeatedly aim strong punches to the head of an opponent not wearing head gear
-offer no apology for incurring even a simple injury like a bloody nose
-the majority of the class completely ignore instructions to use only 30% power
-a high-rank student is permitted to intentionally use more power than an equally-ranked partner (against that partner)

The instructor was very helpful and gave me some really excellent pointers.  He was very engaging and clearly interested in watching his students improve, which we did over the course of the class.  So I’m pretty heartbroken to say that there’s very little chance that I can go back to that class.  I have since learned that my partner of equal rank (who we’ll call Kris) is apparently known as “No Control” Kris.  Yikes.  Why is she allowed to spar?  Why intentionally injure your classmates?  Is your training really so important that things like restraint get lost in the process?

Maybe I’ve just gone soft.  It’s been five years since I sparred last, I’m not in my best shape, and I did well considering.  Frankly, I’m feeling good about my performance, but I have a lot to learn and a lot to improve, but… I won’t, because I can’t go back to that class if that’s what will be allowed from her and other students.

I don’t want an apology.  I want to train.  I don’t want a concussion, but I want to learn.  Gotta make this happen.

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martial arts, work

Skip this one, I’m just blowing off steam

I have two jobs: Office Job and Karate Job.  Karate Job is unique in the sense that if I want any time off, I need to ask the other sensei’s to cover all my classes for me.  As a result, I have yet to take a vacation from this job (I’ve been there close to two years).  With the exception of two one-day occasions (one was Sister’s engagement the day after Thanksgiving why don’t we get that day off, the other was ComiCon), I have never asked for coverage for anything other than being deathly ill.  Having a job means showing up and doing that job every day, even if you don’t want to, even if you’re hung over or tired and want a vacation.  You suck it up, and do your job.

hey, wanna help me shirk my responsibilities? thaaaanks!!!! 🙂

Most of the sensei’s are actors, so they’ll ask for coverage at the drop of a hat (“I just landed this really big gig and I need to be on set for the next three days!!!”), but they won’t commit to cover for anyone else (read: me) if I want to make plans a month in advance (say, for something like a vacation) because what if their big break comes along and they’re stuck covering someone else’s classes omfg worst day ever.  So when a sensei who has never covered for me (even when I had that stabbing sensation in my intestines every fifteen minutes for two days) asks for coverage because his friends are in town and he wants to be a good host and show them around LA, guess what.  NO.  A thousand times, no.  Everyone wants to hang out with friends, but guess what.  You have a fucking job.  DO YOUR JOB.  When my cousin from Australia who I haven’t seen in a decade came into town, did I ask for time off?  No.  Because I have a job, and living my life shouldn’t stop other people from living theirs.  It’s just that simple.

I think this bothers me so much because I have two jobs, and if I cover for anyone, that automatically means that I will work two weeks without a day off.  Most of my time off is spent at the Kung Fu studio already, so the idea that someone would shoot me a quizzical look when I say “Sorry, I can’t cover for you that day,” makes my blood boil.  Especially the sensei’s who ask for coverage at the Valley or Near Valley locations.  They just don’t understand how not-worth it it is financially.  Let’s break it down:

Let’s say the sensei needs four classes covered.  At $25/hr, that’s $100; after taxes it’s around $66.  It’s 30 miles to and from Valley or Near Valley schools from my place on the Westside.  That’s about $16 worth of gas in my current death trap of a car.  That drops my pay to about $50, which means that I’m now getting paid just $13 per hour to teach kids who don’t know me in an unfamiliar school in the fucking Valley.

So no, sensei, I can’t cover for you up there.  I can never cover for you.

I’ve averaged one day of coverage per month since I started working there.  If someone would like to give karma a call and let her know that I’m due for a vacation, that’d be nice.  It would mean more if it didn’t come from me, y’know?  kthx!

not pictured: boss winding up for an undeserved sucker punch

Side rant: What is it that compels bosses to tell their employees that they’re doing a great job, the kids are happy, the parents are (literally) outraged when I’m not there when I’m sick, everything is great.  But hey, are you starting classes on time?  I heard you weren’t.  Yeah, last Friday I lost track of time and we started one of the classes a minute or two late.  Ok… Starting on time is important.  You need to start doing that.  Right, of course, it was an anomaly, my classes usually do start on time.  Ok great… it’s just that I heard that it was a thing with you… That’s odd, because it’s not.  Have the parents been complaining?  No, I just wanted to make sure you knew that-

*sigh*  Yeah.  Just keep reiterating your point.  That’ll help.  Because I’m a small mammal or a child, and I don’t understand English too good.  I was intelligent when you hired me, but being a subordinate has made me stupid as all hell, so yeah, please just keep repeating yourself.  Maybe I’ll crack under the pressure and tell you that you’re right and I’m wrong even if I’m not.  Go ahead; bully me into lying to you.  That’s a good work relationship, right?  Right?

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martial arts

Meditation consternation

I started my Kung Fu training about six months ago, and received a brown sash this month.  It’s a big deal.  I’m one of maybe five brown sashes in the entire school.  I’m trying not to stress too much about it, the burden of being a leading female in a hard core martial arts school (again), and so far, so good.  It’s a title I’m used to holding, just not in a group of almost strangers.  I’m doing well so far, making friends, keeping my mouth shut when I should–mostly (still perfecting that one)–and taking constructive criticism with open ears and a grin.

plus, if I try meditating when I wake up, I pass out

One aspect of the training I’m still getting used to is the constant meditation; 10 minutes per day, sitting in a specific posture, utilizing specific breathing exercises, etc.  It’s not difficult but it takes some planning, and life tends to try to get in the way.  So far the biggest obstacle isn’t finding the time, it’s forcing myself not to eat/drink before and after.  You’d think I could just overeat beforehand to take care of the allotted no-eating/drinking-time that precedes and follows meditation, but you’d be wrong.  When you have a metabolism like a hummingbird, eating every couple hours becomes essential, lest that wold-class tantrum that’s been building up behind these gentle hazel eyes finally gets unleashed.  In which case, good luck, unbroken bones of the people around me, it’s been nice knowin’ ya.

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life, martial arts

Stuart Smalley is now a state senator; time to get off my ass and think positive

I had an interesting conversation with Diminutive Roommate the other night.  She mentioned that I always seemed confident in myself.  I corrected her immediately.  I don’t always speak up when I should, which bothers me a lot.  I have to correct myself often when I have thoughts like, “I’ll never be as good at this as her,” which happened most commonly at my old real estate job (and it was true).  I had that thought tonight at Kung Fu.  Watching the way the instructor moves when he’s instructing, doing the techniques at 10% speed is so educational.  The essence of the technique comes out, and I think, I’ll never be as good as him at this.  Ever.  Oh well.

a machine that thinks. also known as "Skynet."

I really, really need to stop thinking like that.  Who the fuck am I helping?  I get these thoughts during the cardio workout class there, too.  But it occurred to me tonight that I jumped into that cardio class after years of doing zero training or working out of any kind.  And I’m doing an awesome job keeping up.  A small group of students have become kinda friends, and they really appreciate the extra experience I bring to the studio.  So SUCK IT, LIFE.  I will stop silently putting myself down all the time.

I told the instructor that I think I’ll have all the material for white, yellow and orange sashes mastered in a week, which is true, I think.  I’ll just have to practice every day, especially at the dojo.  I can do this.  One piece at a time, I will master kung fu like I mastered tae kwon do and hap ki do.  I’m good at this.  I can do it.

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life, martial arts, work

Pity party

nectar of the gods

It occurred to me recently that I’ve become a very busy person.  I don’t particularly like being super busy; I’m not one of those people who has to be doing something all the time to feel useful.  I’d like to sleep in at Boyfriend’s house, read, have some eggs and tater tots with Cholula and ketchup, take a walk, lay out in the sun (finally finish that last LOTR book), maybe have some sex, take a nap, watch a few episodes of Buffy or The Office, try to cook a delicious meal from that recipe app I just got (go get phở after probable, massive failure) or go have dinner with friends, followed by 5-hour table-top gaming session.

THAT is a perfect day.  Here’s what I do instead:

Monday, Wednesday, Friday
Office Job: Alarm goes off at 7:21am, snooze until 7:45, get dressed, make PBJ sammiches, leave by 8:15, chastise self for being late so often.  Park car in giant parking structure, take tram to campus, walk to building, attempt to work until 1:30pm.  Drive to Redondo Beach to teach a few karate classes to kids who either:
a) Love it, and love me
b) Have a great attitude, even when I tell them to do something hard
c) Love having fun, but therefore must be entertained, lest the unhappy face make an appearance (I call it “The Crank”)
d) Didn’t get their nap, and are close to flopping on the floor and giving up every second of the class
e) Don’t want to be there at all.  Want to go home.  Now.  Home.  Home!  NOW!

pictured: option D

Fridays I go to Santa Monica to teach karate, where the kids tend to have nannies, a stronger sense of entitlement, and parent who tend not to want to hear anything that might resemble criticism.

Tuesday
Repeat above Office Job portion.  Go home to the Westside, eat ramen (or broccoli omfg I love it so much), relax for a few hours, change into Kung Fu clothes, leave by 5:15 to help with beginner’s class, take cardio class, take intermediate class.  Five hours after I left for the studio, I arrive home to eat something easy, shower, and go to bed by 11:30.

Thursday
SLEEP IN!  Repeat above Kung Fu portion.

Saturday
SLEEP IN!  This is the only day I truly have completely off.  I spend most of it sleeping, eating, gaming with friends (poker!), and generally not standing up.

Sunday
Alarm goes off at 9:21am.  Must leave by 9:45, but snooze until 9:39 most of the time.  Drive to Redondo Beach dojo, stop by McDonalds for two egg mcmuffins (eat both in car), park car at dojo, walk across PCH (scary!) to Starbucks (grande iced mocha with whip cream).  Teach four classes, and maybe a weapons workshop.  Done by 3 or 6.  Go home, repeat Saturday plan.

Most of my fellow Sensei’s are actors, so they all need time off at the drop of a hat, and refuse to cover for anyone else too far into the future for fear of double-booking on the day of their yet-unbooked big break.  I’ve been covering a bunch recently because of the incoming car purchase, meaning I haven’t had a full day off in almost three weeks.  I drive almost 200 miles per week just to get to my jobs on my own shifts (not counting Kung Fu which adds 20mi).  Monday comes zooming up on me since Sunday is a work day, then I’m sleep-deprived until three days later when I get to sleep in on Thursday.  I look forward to sleep more than I look forward to food at this point.  Which is sad.  Maybe that’ll change if I make one of those amazing pumpkin dishes!  🙂

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goodness, life, martial arts

An exciting day

Yesterday was an exciting day for three reasons: Poker, Car, Kung Fu.

POKER

it's orange! like a pumpkin!

Diminutive Roommate and I went to college together.  I get the feeling we’re going to be friends our whole lives.  I sure hope we are, because we have so much fun together.  We used to play poker at least once a week in college, and decided recently that we should start doing that again.  Sister bought me a poker table years ago, and I just got it back last week from Chinese ExBoyfriend’s household (we broke up… wow, over five years ago).

Hooray!  I got it back!  But we’ve been borrowing poker chips from them too, so I thought fuck it, I’m getting my own chips.  Imagine my delight when I discovered that you can order any number of any color chip you want.  So instead of the traditional set of 500 white, red, blue, black, green poker chip set, I got 650 yellow, orange, gray, purple and pink.  CANNOT WAIT TO PLAY WITH THEM SUPER EXCITED THEY’RE GETTING HERE MONDAAAAAAYYYY!!

CAR

Apparently entry-level automatic cars are not sold without all kinds of bells and whistles, so yesterday I custom-ordered my car.  It’s going to be a white Fiat 500 with brown and white interior and no extras (who the fuck needs a engine block heater in LA?).  It should be ready in 45 days (Is that business days I asked?  No one knows.  Apparently this is top-secret info the Chrysler factories churning these things out in Mexico aren’t telling anyone).  I’m not as excited as I should be, because I’ve been attempting to buy this damn car for weeks now.  No one at the dealerships or credit union are doing their job despite the fact that I’m attempting to buy a car at full price, and in the meantime I’m stuck in that damn deathtrap 98 Exploder that inhales gas at an alarming rate (I’m getting maybe 11mpg.  Maybe).  When the Fiat arrives I’ll lose my mind.  Meanwhile, I spent $372 on gas last month.  But fuck it!  I’m getting  a new car!  It’s gonna be so fucking cute, hahaha!

so cute

KUNG FU

I was invited to train at a kung fu studio by a friend of mine (let’s call her Little Iron Friend- she has completed her Iron Palm training; high-fiving her is painful).  I’ve only been taking classes sporadically for six months.  I’ve chatted with the instructors, who have made it clear that they’re willing to put me on the fast track to obtaining a black sash.  I told them I’d like to earn a brown sash first, then work for black.  The head instructor seemed very pleased with that decision.  He said, “You move like a black belt.  There’s no reason why you shouldn’t earn your black sash within a year.”

fingers crossed!

I figured that meant that I would attend class without rank until I tested for brown.  Imagine my surprise when I arrived early yesterday to watch Little Iron Friend teach class, and one of the instructors approached me with a brand new, folded, shining brown sash.  He held it out to me with two hands, in the traditional style, and said, “This is for you.”  I didn’t reach out to take it; I just stared at it, and said, “What’s that?”  He grinned, and informed me that I will effectively hold the rank of brown sash while I learn all the material leading up to that rank.  This means I’ll be the highest rank in the intermediate class, which will likely cause some tension.  I’m not too worried about it; I have no ego associated with my rank, and I think most people know that.  I have one more black belt than the only black belt student in the school (that I’ve seen), and he’s uber serious for some reason.  No sense of humor to speak of.  It’s really a shame.

The point is, I have a kung fu brown sash.  And that’s amazing.  Little Iron Friend and I had dinner last night and chatted about it.  She’s a green sash, so I out-rank her now which could be awkward. I told her if she feels weird or if this starts to put a strain on our friendship, I’ll give it back and walk away. She said it’s not a problem, and we’re good.  She has a lot of respect for me as a martial artist, and vice versa, so I think we’re going to be fine.  I told her I was nervous about how the other students would react now that I technically outrank them.  She said, “I’ll stand by you.  Don’t worry about it.”  I was touched.  I’m so glad we found each other and became friends.

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badness, family, martial arts, work

Fat, not “FAT”

My mom’s mom was a model, and not just any model, an Adrian model.  Adrian Adolph Greenberg was a huge designer of women’s gowns used commonly in big Hollywood movies during the 1930s and 40s.  My mom used to be a clothing model for tailors and designers; “I was a perfect size four,” she would say.  My dad’s family has a history of natural athleticism, from college basketball, hurdles, swimming, etc.  My folks were both quite handsome in their hay-day.

Adrian made some classy shit

My sister and I have turned out to be what I’m going to call pretty good looking athletes.  I’m pleased with my looks (but wouldn’t call myself beautiful); Sister, on the other hand, is pretty much a knockout when she’s all dressed up (if she stands up straight).  It was a given that every year in school, we would do some sport, and excel in it.  I was captain of my middle school soccer (we lost almost every game) and volleyball (we made it to state!) teams.  Sister kicked everyone’s ass at cross country, and was so competitive (about everything, in truth) that she threw up before half of her races, most of which she won.  I’m a talented martial artist, a quick learner with a sharp eye for form.  I ran a mile the other night no problem; Sister could run three before her knees start to hurt.

I’m not saying all this to stroke my own ego.  Athleticism and good looks are my family legacy.  So when a mother approached me asking, “Why do you think it is that my child is so fat?” I’m thrown for a bit of a loop.  What do I say?  Should I be honest and say that her child has demonstrated that she has a propensity to be lazy, probably due to all the extra weight she carries around, which, in turn, causes her to be lazy?  That being fat is a cycle that’s tough to break out of, and that she did the right thing to sign her up for a martial arts class?

if Elvis did it, it must be awesome

Well, that’s what I did.  I was kind, and honest, and encouraging.  The mom smiled and nodded, and agreed with me at every turn.  Then she left, and apparently wrote a scathing email about how I called her child fat, and that she and her child will not be returning to the school because she feels judged and unwelcome.

Where do I begin?

No one wants to be fat, but some people are.  Fat is an adjective, like blue.  It applies to things (and people) that are fat.  Fat was a noun that became an adjective.  It happens all the time within many languages.  It’s not a sin.

I understand that it’s a hot-button word.  Coming from a thin, athletic person, I understand that it may come off as an insult.  But let’s be clear: calling someone fat within the context of a discussion regarding health and fitness is not the same as calling someone a fatty.  It’s simply vocabulary that states a fact: some people are fat, and should lose that extra fat in order to no longer be fat.  It’s very, very simple.  There is no extra meaning attached to the word ‘fat’ coming from me.  Any and all baggage attached to that word originates solely on the receiving end of that word.

At what point did the word ‘fat’ cease to be an acceptable adjective for overweight people?  What do they think all that weight consists of?  Hint: It’s FAT, not overweight-ness, not big-boned-ness.  It’s the noun that became an adjective.  That’s it.

Jessica Simpson is not fat, she's just not a skeleton anymore

This mother was right to worry about her child, who is seriously overweight (also known as fat).  When the child stands up after sitting on the floor, the motions resemble exactly what an old football coach with no knees left does when he breaks a huddle.  At age 5, that’s just unreal, and totally unhealthy.  I hope she gets her child checked out by a doctor to make sure it’s not a thyroid problem or something.

Bottom line: I care about this child’s health because this child is fat.  Not a fatty or any other mean name, just fat, and that’s not healthy.  If a mother (who is also overweight) asks me about her overweight child’s health, but doesn’t want to hear that her child is fat, she needs to ask different questions, or talk to someone who:

A) Doesn’t give a shit about her child’s well-being.

B) Will lie to her face, and tell her that her child is healthy, normal, and has nothing to worry about health-wise.

C) Doesn’t have a clue about what a normal child’s body should look like.

So why did I bother mentioning my totally awesome pedigree, all those handsome, athletic people in my family tree?  Because the underlying problem here is that I don’t know what it’s like to be fat.  I mean, I was a fat kid until around age 4, but I was totally unaware of it.  As a result, I’m on the outside of a discussion that I will never be welcomed into because I “don’t know what it’s like.”  Similar to a whites’ opinion on black issues, a thin person who has never been fat apparently has no right to talk about fat people–even when prompted.

UPDATE: August 29th, 1:14pm
I read an article in the LA Times today entitled “Does Obesity Qualify as Child Abuse?”  Yikes.  So that’s pretty extreme.  But kids don’t control what they eat, parents do.

It occurs to me now that the mother in question wasn’t only insulted in a protective-parent way, but was also probably harboring some guilt.  A child doesn’t get fat because she’s eating three square meals a day and getting plenty of exercise, it’s because the parents are potentially not doing a stellar job with her food intake, and making sure she’s active enough.  When she mentioned that her child took swim classes, I asked, “Does she do all the exercises?”
mom: I don’t know, I don’t stay to watch.
me: I noticed that I had to encourage her constantly just to keep her from slowing down in the middle of an activity.  That happened a lot during class today, so she may not be participating in every activity in swim class either.  She may not be getting as much exercise as you think.”

This woman was not abusing her child.  She was trying to get her to do athletic activities, and asked me for some (apparently unwanted) advice.  She wants her child to be healthy, but she could lost 40lbs and be healthier herself, so what kind of lifestyle change does she really expect from a child if she can’t do it herself?

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goodness, humor, martial arts, work

That girlish figure

Now and then I’m reminded that kids have no idea what the world is about at all.

One of them laid down on the floor after I asked everyone to stand up, so I told him that I’d once accidentally stepped on a student because he didn’t stand up when I told him to (true) and that he had cried (false) because it had hurt him (true).  He didn’t look convinced, so I asked the kids how much they weighed.

“60 pounds!  51!  55!  62!”  Wow, I said, that’s pretty good.  How much do you guys think Sensei weighs?

Here’s what I got:

stylish!

108 pounds!  80% of my body weight.  Just enough to make me look like I would neglect my health if it meant a modeling contract.  Look at how fashionable I’d be!

.

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rockstar!

120 pounds!  89% of my body weight.  This just below my ideal training weight.  I’m about 125 when I’m nothing but solid muscle.  Awesome!

.

.

..

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um... winner?

340 pounds!  252% of my body weight.  What?!  This kid was dead serious.  This was his best guess.  At this weight, I like to think I’d be a little bit proud, like I’d just won a really shitty contest.

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clueless!

90 pounds!  67% of my body weight.  Yeah, maybe if I was 12, lol!  I don’t have a whole lot of good memories of being 90lbs (6th grade).  I had just experienced the fifth of five deaths that happened between ages 9 and 12.  I wasn’t unhappy, but I was very alone, and in hindsight, a little lost.  I’m happy to be an adult.

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censored!

1,698 pounds!  1,258% of my body weight.  That’s twelve Me’s.  Yeah, this kid was joking.  If he wasn’t, he’d still be doing pushups right now.  There isn’t a clothing size that would fit twelve Me’s.  Plus, droopy boobs!  Gross!

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stinky!

61 pounds!  45% of my body weight.  This was another serious guess.  Bear in mind that these kids had just told me  they weigh about that much, and you’ll stop thinking it’s a cute mis-guided guess, and start worrying about their super-short goldfish memories.  I would have to have been dead for a good month or so before I lost this much weight due to decomposition.

bitter and alone!

1057 pounds!  783% of my body weight.  At this point, I would have to make a choice: Aim for 1,698 pounds, or remain pissed off for being stuck in some fuck-ugly muu muu for the rest of my joint-crippling, asexual, two-seats-on-the-bus, stray cat attracting life.

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life, martial arts

A generation of softies

what a douche

I’ve heard many people compare learning martial arts to joining the armed forces.  Participants become physically and mentally tougher, learn valuable fighting skills, and get their asses kicked on a fairly regular basis.  Whenever I run into another martial artist, our common trials bond us together instantly.  The running joke goes something like, “What crazy bullshit did your master put you through?”  We compare scars and bruises, techniques and tactics.  With a knowing smile and a firm handshake, we’re friends before we even know each other’s names.

[Note: This does not include martial artists who brag about their abilities.  Those are a totally separate group of people who are all buddies for different, more self-indulgent reasons.  I do not consider these people martial artists at heart.  See picture.  Note the poorly photo shopped American flag, and how the portion of his black belt with kanji has been intentionally blurred.  That’s taboo.  Badly done, Chuck.]

But things have changed since I was a student.  Instructors praise their students constantly.  They smile and laugh when their students make mistakes, then encourage them to try again.  This positive feedback approach is the complete opposite of what my generation (and all past generations) of martial arts students experienced.  How will my students bond in the future?  Certainly not over what a bastard I was.  I hope.  Crap.

Yes, things have changed.  My instructors were never wrong.  Being in class meant not smiling, not laughing, and never, ever talking back to the instructor.  If you made a mistake, the Grand Master would point in out in front of the whole class, often with anger in his voice.  And for what?  To humiliate the students into getting it right the next time?  All it did was make me tense.  I was not happy there.  Why did I stay?

I think it must have been the people.  The fact is, even with the tyrannical nature of the studio, we still had a lot of fun.  We still joked around and laughed and goofed off (and got in trouble for it).  We would clean up the studio, then go out for Korean food at the 24-hour place in K-town.  I had a blast, and it saddens me that I’m not really in touch with anyone from those days.  Gotta work on that.

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