Sparring yesterday
Fiona and I went to sparring class yesterday. Note: I haven't made it all the way through a single sparring class since my initial injury in November. Part of this is because I'm still babying my right knee, but part of it, I will freely admit, is that I am a wuss who is unable to muster up sufficient stamina. Sparring class KILLS me. I always crawl out of there dripping with sweat and blowing like a grampus. I was the only one who attended last night who WASN'T a black belt, and lord, didn't I know it. To increase my humiliation, Mr. Craven and Mr. No were there: Mr. Craven is a national fighting champion, and Mr. No earned his black belt in a TKD school and has the most amazing crazy-ass kicks. I hadn't fought Mr. Craven before, but just watching him warm up, I had to fight the impulse, when we partnered off, to simply bow to him and concede the match before any punches or kicks were exchanged. Why would someone like him waste his time with someone like me? I partnered with Mr. No for a down-the-room drill: blitz back fist/punch followed by round kick. He was very kind and offered encouragement, but I still felt obscure humiliation. Lord, why am I even pretending? He stepped on my foot pad, ripping it in half all the way, which gave me an excuse to stop before we broke down into two sparring rings to finish the class. I didn't feel any annoyance at him over this, since both foot pads were halfway ripped already anyway, and it was high time for me to get new ones (except bummer, I have to come up with $40 for a new set somehow).
I do not like sparring. I do not, I do not, I do not. I am pissed at my injury and pissed that I can't kick above waist level even though I've been trying, trying, trying to get my hamstrings to open up, but they won't budge. And I'm also pissed at my body for just getting so winded so quickly. Fiona LOVES sparring. She suits up into her sparring kit and it's like oh boy! Sparring! Bounce, bounce! Sparring! Why the hell can't I love it like that, too? But every time I do it, I feel so old, out of shape, and pathetic, and I just hate getting hit so hard.
Yet I know I have to do it. Ugh, ugh, ugh. Give me form anytime. I keep trying and trying. But I still can't make myself like it at all and then getting mad at myself for my attitude.
I talked with our senior instructor briefly last night, mentioning that gradually I'm getting to the point that I can get most of the way through the class without going to the bathroom to cry or throw up. Maybe soon I'll make it all the way through an entire class. He smiled. "It's good to have goals like that."
I do not like sparring. I do not, I do not, I do not. I am pissed at my injury and pissed that I can't kick above waist level even though I've been trying, trying, trying to get my hamstrings to open up, but they won't budge. And I'm also pissed at my body for just getting so winded so quickly. Fiona LOVES sparring. She suits up into her sparring kit and it's like oh boy! Sparring! Bounce, bounce! Sparring! Why the hell can't I love it like that, too? But every time I do it, I feel so old, out of shape, and pathetic, and I just hate getting hit so hard.
Yet I know I have to do it. Ugh, ugh, ugh. Give me form anytime. I keep trying and trying. But I still can't make myself like it at all and then getting mad at myself for my attitude.
I talked with our senior instructor briefly last night, mentioning that gradually I'm getting to the point that I can get most of the way through the class without going to the bathroom to cry or throw up. Maybe soon I'll make it all the way through an entire class. He smiled. "It's good to have goals like that."
