I keep hurting myself.

On Friday at pad strikes, we were doing a back and forth across the room drill, and at one point when we were trying to get our heart rate up with a slide hop slide, I Did Something Wrong and I felt the ball in my hip socket pop partly out. I crashed to the ground (how embarrassing!), got up and cautiously manipulated the hip joint. The ball had gone right in again, but the hip was sore, so I was done for the night.

Tonight, I went to sparring class. I was wary, because this was the advanced sparring class, filled with too many young guys with too much testosterone, but the screening's in two weeks, and I need all the practice I can get. We started with three minute warm up matches. My first fight, through the luck of the draw I drew the person with the highest belt level in the room, a sixth degree, but he knew what he was doing of course, and didn't hurt me. Fight two I fought a kid who had no chance against me. He's a black belt, but he's more than a foot shorter than me, and I had the reach on him every time. Fine. Third fight, I turned to face his brother. Thirty seconds in, I twisted my left ankle, and down I went.

This was the ankle that got twisted a month ago...Fiona had left her SHOES at the BOTTOM OF THE STAIRS and I fell over them on my way out the door and it's been bothering me ever since. I suspect I strained the ligaments or something, and here I was, twisting it all over again, a week and a half before the second screening. Wonderful. I took off my gear and hobbled to the office and put the foot up with an ice pack. Sparring was done for the night.

Damn, damn, damn.

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I went on a walk on the Stone Arch Bridge for the first time in a long time, possibly about a month.

I stopped walking the bridge when I got so dreadfully sick. The aftermath of that illness was that I would go into paroxyms of coughing when I stepped from inside to outside, the coughs apparently triggered by the change of temperature. So the little slice of time that I made for myself each morning fell by the wayside and I barely noticed. I was too exhausted from my illness and busy trying to breathe. Then, weeks later, when I returned to work and the cough cleared up, thanks to the big guns inhaler, the temperature was so cold that the walk didn't seem tempting, and frankly, I was out of the habit.

I have been reflecting upon habits, and about mindfulness. It's the time of year to take stock of myself. What to I need to be diligent about keeping in my life? My paper journal had been all but abandoned this year. I am trying resume the daily entry, and ordered the journal for next year. I am trying to do daily slow kicks, so I don't die in the black belt screenings, which resume next month. After the first of the year, I will resume sparring class--the concussion was my excuse to stop, and, just as with walking the bridge, I fell out of the habit of going to sparring class. (The only difference: I like walking the bridge, whereas I really don't like sparring). But they are starting a women-only sparring class, which will remove one of my chief dislikes about sparring (teenage brown belt boys with too much testerone and no control who hit too hard). I have been doing a lot of reading about overcoming depression and about happiness, and the one proven practice that helps people keep depression at bay is, again, a mindful habit, to list one's gratitudes every day. The Decrease Worldsuck posts have dropped off, and I need to get more mindful about that, too.

How about you? What good habits have you let slip lately that you are trying to reinstate in your life?

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I got there in street clothes due to an appointment right before. I opened my bag and couldn't find my sports bra. WTF? I HATE fighting without it.

My goal was to get through the entire class without quitting.

I got punched in the head REALLY HARD. Straight in the face. By a sixteen year old brown belt six inches taller and fifty pounds heavier than me. Classic. Not his fault, really. I'm a little hazy about what happened, but it was an accident of bad timing, I think. He wasn't out of control; I just stepped in at the exact wrong moment while attempting a blitz (I think?) It rocked my head back. I yelled and stopped the fight and pulled off the helmet and gasped, starting to cry. But within thirty seconds, I had my helmet back on and stepped back into the ring and finished the fight, at full capacity.

I won several fights and got third place for the night (out of maybe nine fighters?)

My belt fell off, so I draped it over the bar...and forgot about it when I left.

Got home and discovered my sports bra wasn't on the bed. So where was it? When I discovered my belt was missing, too, I growled and stomped around alot and snarled and then drove back to the school. There was my sports bra...in the parking lot. Yes, someone had driven over it. Found my belt inside the school.

My jaw and my chin hurt, hurt, hurt. I have a headache.

Going to take a shower.

I got through the entire class, without hyperventilating.

But I do Not. Like. Sparring.

Edited to add: Oh my god, this hurts. My jaw hurts and my chin hurts and I have a terrible headache. Crying in the shower from the pain. Not a good sign. Hope the motrin kicks in soon.

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The temperature was in the 90s today, dewpoint in the 60s.

I still went to sparring.

I made it (almost) all the way through an entire class.

I fought guys bigger than me.

I landed some good licks.

I recovered from a tough punch to the head by a guy six inches taller and maybe 100 pounds heavier.

I did not cry.

I had fun.

Progress!

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I made it all the way through, ALL the way through an entire sparring class without passing out, crying or throwing up. Or having to stop because I couldn't breathe.

My personal victory.

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Fiona went to take the second of two screenings for her next belt tonight.

She was worried going in because she was really not feeling up to par. She hasn't had a hard workout since the mugging, because of the medical restrictions. "And I feel tired," she said. "I've been feeling really tired for months now." I looked at her in the rear view mirror, worried. I wonder if she might actually be a touch anemic. She takes vitamins--when her Daddy nags her--but she barely eats any red meat or other high iron foods.

The kicking section was what was weak last time, but that seemed to go much better this time. Her balance looked rock-steady, and she kept her leg up at belt level. On form, I saw one bobble--she lost her grip on the bo with one hand mementarily--fortunately when she was facing away from the test examiner.

Then came self-defense. She started out as the attacker. I looked over at her and suddenly realized that she was in tears.

I was immediately alarmed. What had happened? Had her partner inadvertently hit her? This was the first time she had faced punches in a week. Was she having, god forbid, a flashback from the attack or something? Her back was toward the front of the room. She surreptitiously wiped her face several times and pulled herself together, and then switched to defense. It didn't look terribly solid. I don't think she twisted or transferred her weight on everything. But the examiner made no comment.

She came out for a water break and I made a bee-line to her side. "My skinned elbow [from the mugging] opened up again when she took me down with that sweep," she explained. "And I hit my head on the ground. Now my head really hurts."

The concussion I thought. Damn.

She got through paper kicks and pad strikes. Then everyone suited up for sparring.

Sparring did not go well, and I could immediately tell that something was different. It took me a little bit to realize what it was.

She was paired up with another woman, slightly bigger and heavier, and she was retreating. She was doing nothing but retreating. And that wasn't like her at all. Fiona fights guys MUCH bigger than her all the time, and usually she's really aggressive.

The examiner stopped the bout a couple of times, directing his comments to her, telling her to change direction, to keep outside the red zone. The bout resumed, and she continued retreating. I clenched my fists. Toward the end, I saw that she was in tears again.

The bout ended and both were dismissed. I followed her to the back, where she took off her gear methodically, stopping to wipe away the tears on her face as she removed piece by piece. I handed her the water and helped her pack her kit bag.

I was so afraid of saying the wrong thing. "I'm really proud of you, honey. It was so hard, but you got in there and you did it."

She leaned her forehead against mine, obviously spent and still upset.

"Fiona..." I hesitated. "I could go and speak with the examiner for you. I could tell him what happened to you last week, so he can take it into consideration. But I won't do it unless you give me permission."

She thought about it, and finally nodded. "Yeah, why don't you tell him." She wiped her face again. "I hate being a girl when it makes me cry like this."

"I know," I sympathized. "I do it, too, always at the time when it's most humiliating."

So when everyone had finished sparring and had left to pack up their gear, I went to have a quiet word with Mr. Worley. "I just wanted to ask...um, did our head instructor tell you what happened to Fiona last week?"

He looked puzzled. "No."

"She was mugged. This is the first time she's fought since it happened. She was on medical restriction because she had a grade one concussion. I just thought--with what happened with the sparring and everything--maybe you should know." I was assailed by sudden doubt. Was it a mistake to tell him? Would he think I was an overprotective parent, just making excuses for an inadequate performance?

He looked shocked. "No, I didn't know that. I'm very sorry that she went through that. I think she fought okay. She was facing a larger opponent, after all. She just needed to work on her movement."

I nodded, and quashed the absurd urge to apologize for making the explanation.

I took Fiona out for ice cream. She was so tired that she only managed a half a dozen bites, and then she threw the rest of it away.

Came home where we got a call from our head instructor. He told me he'd spoken with Mr. Worley, and so he was calling us to apologize for his oversight in not passing along to Mr. Worley Fiona's situation. They would not have made her fight, had they known. But the good news is, Fiona passed the screening.

So, now Fiona, although still very tired, is extremely happy. She is testing for her second degree black belt on Saturday, July 31, at 9:00 a.m.

Last night I went back to sparring class for the first time in months. I was quite nervous about it, and rather glum when it was over. I'll try to view the glass as half full (at least I tried!) rather than half empty (I sucked). But it's difficult.

Fiona has the same class. Unlike me, she LOVES sparring, although she does find it vexing that quite frequently she's the only girl woman to show up (not to mention the smallest person in the room, which means she's quite handicapped in terms of reach). So she was pleased to see me back.

I suited up. This sounds simpler than it was. Our equipment includes elbow guards, shin guards, hand and foot pads, chest guard, mouth protection and helmet. For one thing, this was the first time I suited up while wearing the knee brace; I hadn't realized, but of course it was going to be in the way of the shin guard. Duh. I thought hard about it, but I was really leery about trying to fight without the knee brace (well, to fight at all, actually) so I strapped the shin guard around it as best I could.

Fiona promised I could start with her. I knew she wouldn't whale on me. We started with a light three minute bout, working on double kicks, no hands. Fiona's balance when kicking is absolutely superb. She cocks her knee up and pops the kick out, pop pop pop at her opponent's head level as she slides, without setting down at all between kicks. Deadly like a scorpion. Amazing. It's her best defense because she's so short compared to practically everyone else in the room--she can't allow them to reach out to score with a punch, so she has to keep her knee up there all the time. She circled me slowly, letting me get the hang of starting to fight again, giving me openings, letting me get my confidence up. It's interesting to see her in the role of a teacher. Then we lined up in double lines and everyone stepped to the right and I was paired with Mikey W. (He's a brown belt now so I should address him by his last name, but I've been thinking of him as 'Mikey' forever, and his last name is long and I always forget it.) Mikey has some physical limitations--I think he has Asperger's? or he's mildly autistic. He's worked very hard, but he's never going to be one of the stars of the school. Our instructor for the hour stopped by to watch our bout and gave him quick advice on a flaw I'd already spotted myself: he was fighting from a face-on position rather than positioning himself so that his side was facing me. He's rather broad anyway, so he was presenting an even larger target. He's also rather slow and really signals his moves in advance, so it was pretty easy to hold my own in the bout.

Line up, step to the right--and my stomach plummeted. I was facing Mohammed C., who three people had mentioned to me as someone who has real trouble with control: he hits much too hard. He's a rather new red belt. He's bigger than me, too. I was extremely nervous, starting to fight with him, but I quickly realized it wouldn't be too bad. All the three fighters who mentioned him also noted that our head instructor actually made him leave class and go home one day as a warning since he was showing so little control. Maybe the message has finally sunk in, or maybe he realized that I've been out for awhile, but he really didn't press too hard. I did have one bad moment when I threw a kick that seemed to throw my hip out, leaving me staggering against the bar. But after a moment's anxiety, I was able to get back to the fight. My three minutes went quickly without me getting punched too hard, although I was starting to breathe hard. Line up, step to the right, and to my relief, I ended facing Mr. Stretton, a black belt.

I've mentioned Mr. Stretton before--he's about my age, and has had years as a boxer. He's one of the biggest fighters in our entire school, but he has excellent control, and is a very generous and patient teacher, very open with tips. I like him a lot. He has also coped with bad injuries over the years and so is very sympathetic on that score. He knew that I was just getting back and was very nervous, and so he reassured me that he wouldn't be throwing anything very hard. The instructor directed us to throw hand techniques followed by kicking techniques. Mr. Stretton was free with the encouragment, and I did manage to land several good kicks. He pointed out that I managed them well above waist level, which made me feel a little better.

We took a water break at that point. I was breathing hard by this point, and I decided I'd stop there for the night. The class was about halfway through, but I didn't want to overdo it my first time back. So I pulled my bag to the back and started taking off my gear, feeling somewhat guilty. The instructor started a double team tag in/tag out match which became quite fast and furious. It was terrific fun to watch, and technically challenging since theoretically you might be fighting two opponents rather than one, but I was very glad I wasn't in there myself. We have lots of REALLY good, fast fighters in our school (mostly teenage boys swimming in testosterone). That's what you get when you have instructors who are national champions. It was interesting to see Fiona trying to hold her own in the shark pool there. She has to be very smart to score--which she is--and she uses her kicking skill to excellent advantage, but quite often someone manages to pop her on the top of her helmet simply because they have six inches on her.

I felt rather gloomy as I drove home, although Fiona did her best to be reassuring. I really do feel hopelessly outclassed by 85% of the other fighters there. And not everyone is going to be nice and back off to humor the fifty-year old lady. It's one thing if it's an instructor who's teaching you, but humiliating if it's a sixteen year old boy who's humoring you. They certainly don't bother to do that with each other! I have to be able to hold my own in the ring. How the heck am I going to be able to stand my ground well enough to earn my black belt? Yes, I'm taking the first step by actually suiting up and getting back into the ring. But they don't give you black belts for merely suiting up, and oh, I do not like sparring. I feel like such a fraud.

I've gotten into the habit, when I drop Fiona off at karate, of going to the coffee shop next door and hanging out there with a book until her class is over. Last night was sparring. I wasn't certain whether she'd want to go at all: as soon as she got home from school yesterday, she conked out on our bed and slept for three hours (perhaps her calculus test did her in). She picked at her dinner but said, no, she wanted to go.

Sparring is really grueling. I came back about five minutes before the class was over. Sometimes, if Mr Sidner is there, they close sparring class with a 10 minute abs workout, and I often will join the group for that.

There were about twelve or fifteen or so, mostly teenage boys and young men. A couple of middle aged men. Fiona was the only woman. When I looked through the glass, I saw her kneeling on the ground, breathing and sweating hard. Apparently, they'd been taking turns with partners, kicking pads down the length of the room, and then they'd switch and the other would kick back the other way.

The instructor took Fiona's pad and signalled to her partner that he'd hold for him. As they moved away, I saw Fiona's face crumpling, as if she were fighting back tears, although she tried to hide it. As her former partner and the intructor moved back, the instructor noticed and sent her out, and Fiona headed to the bathroom.

I met her in the hallway outside. She was shaking and starting to cry. I got her some toilet paper to blow her nose, and I went to the coffee shop next door to get her a cup for water. I am such an idiot I thought to myself. She didn't eat any dinner. Of course she got hypoglycemic. I shouldn't have let her spar today. I had just assumed she'd had a late afternoon snack, but judging from how she was shaking, it was clear that she had not.

"Let's get you home so that you can get something to eat," I said. She didn't look at me, but in the mirror. I watched, a little awestruck actually, as she pulled herself together. Sweaty and absolutely effing gorgeous, a woman warrior. Her cheekbones, firm chin, the impossibly chiselled proportions of her torso, the whipcord biceps. I know she can kick to the head.

Eowyn, I thought, loving and admiring her deeply, astounded that this beautiful young woman had really been born from me. There's my Eowyn, my own shieldmaiden.

She sucked in a deep breath and tossed the cup into the garbage. Instead of simply going to strip off her gear, she stepped back into the class room to the line forming by the mirrors, to bow out properly with everyone else. The only girl, the smallest one in the class.

"I hate being the only girl," she groused quietly on the way home.

But she still keeps going.

One of the first people we spotted when we arrived back at the hotel last night was the unfortunate young woman who took that severe blow in Fiona's sparring division. To both of our immense relief, she was there again, apparently discharged from the hospital, up and walking around, although she had on a huge neck brace. The blow had been under her chin, right under her helmet. I guess it's being treated as a whiplash-type injury.

Here's Fiona performing Sho Shin, the first degree black belt form for kamas.




The thing is, the Diamonds are, of course, local for us, but it is really a big-deal national tournament. She had really hoped to perform Me Young (sp?), which is a bo form that's ordinarily done by fourth degree black belts, and she'd spent a month working on learning it. However, she got sick two weeks before the tournament, and so missed a week and a half of classes and so wasn't able to finish learning the form. She decided, reluctantly, to go back to doing Sho Shin--which she loved when she first learned it, but she learned it awhile ago, and she felt rusty at it. And the black belt competition at the Diamonds is especially fierce. The other schools often use more technically challenging forms (which is why Fiona was trying to master a fourth degree form). Because she was rusty, she performed it more slowly than she should have, and in the end, she felt, the form she was forced to use was simply outclassed by the other, more complicated forms. The people who come to compete at the Diamonds travel so far because they are the best of the best.

So that was a disappointment. She hopes she'll have Me Young mastered by tournament time next year. She said she also wants to try some of the smaller regional tournaments, where she wouldn't necessarily be facing national champions who live and breathe nothing but karate.

Here she is demonstrating gun self defense with a partner. In this video, Fiona (closest to the camera) first is the attacker, and then the defender.



We went back to watch the finals last night, which were amazing as always. The people up on the stage perform truly astonishing physical feats. There is quite a bit of gymnastics incorporated in the more extreme forms. Some of the kids, with their leaps, kicks, and blindingly fast weapons work, seem almost superhuman. The synchronized teams were wonderful to watch, too.

"The thing is," Fiona said, "I'd like to be able to do karate like that, but still have a real life. But I don't think that's possible."

I enjoyed the judging much much more the second day. It was particularly fascinating to judge forms done by people from entirely different disciplines--a little intimidating, too, because I honestly didn't know what their criteria for excellence was. But I guess I knew enough to have a feel for it, because my scores were pretty much right in the very same ballpark as the other, more experienced judges. One of the women, in the weapons division, was wielding a fan--an enormous Japanese (I guess) fan. I had never seen anything like it, but it was great fun to watch.

I had been particularly intimidated by judging sparring. The first day, my center (the head judge of the division) was my own senior instructor at our dojo. I asked him privately how I did after the night was over, and he told me I had to be faster and more decisive when making calls. I felt like I really had gotten the hang of it by the end of the second day, and was actually enjoying the process in the end. I would be willing to judge next year. But (an even bigger deal) I also realized I feel I would like to compete myself next year--if, that is, I'm healed well enough to be in fighting shape.

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."