Note: this is an old story, but I’m posting it now so our friends, who are all moving away, have it to remember us by.
Hubby and I met up for dinner with two other couples, one of which has a newborn. The other two couples drove together. Parking was scarce, so Hubby and I were grateful to arrive just as another car was leaving.
Dinner was great, the conversation fun and lasted hours. When it was time to leave, another car waited patiently for us to all hug goodbye in the parking lot so they could take our spot.
Hubby and I hadn’t gone far before the principal called, explaining that his car had been towed from the questionable parking spot he had found.
Part of my daily routine is heading to the garden to pick up fallen oranges and lemons and occasionally pull particularly brazen weeds within our garden beds surrounded by thigh-high plastic fencing to keep out Peter and his rabbit friends.
A week ago, when walking by one of the beds, with both feet on the ground, my legs wobbled. I stopped to marvel at how uneven the ground had become in that area thanks to gophers tunneling, desperate for access to the forbidden fruit guarded by tight metal netting beneath the dirt within the garden beds.
I happened to walk a different path through the garden two mornings ago and so didn’t remember that bad patch of earth as I hopped out over the fence, one foot after the other, as I’ve done a dozen times, though perhaps not in that particular spot, at least not since the recent rains deepened and widened those subterranean tunnels.
My first foot landed while the second was in the air; thus, all my weight went into the first as it buckled and crashed through a gopher subway. I yelped and toppled over, thinking, “Oh please don’t let that be something bad. Maybe I only sprained my ankle. That crack I heard was just the wooden stake that holds the fence breaking when I fell.
It takes so little sometimes. Stuff that I’ve only seen on TV or in movies but then see in real life generally fits the bill.
For instance, chatting with friends at a restaurant while we waited for our table, I happened to look outside and see two guys greet each other with a multi-part handshake.
Who has seen this in real life???
Seriously, if you have, tell me. I’m not sure I knew fancy handshakes actually happened other than on a screen. It was not super complicated. Maybe five steps. Still. It counts. It was amazing.
Secondly, I sold books at a conference in a Marriott hotel. This dude rolled my boxes in for me. To my knowledge, thanks to TV, those carts are used for the rich and famous. I saw one–in action–for me.
Was I supposed to tip that guy? Shoot. Literally only thinking of this now. I don’t know how to behave like the rich and famous. Pretty sure none of them would snag a pic of this, for starters.
Did I freak any of you out? Talk about click bait.
But it WAS the last class for Blue Belt before he left for four years of optometry school out of state. There were lots of hugs, group or otherwise. Instructor, trying not to get teary-eyed, reminisced about Blue Belt’s first day, showing up in pajamas saying, “You teach Jiu-Jitsu?! Cool. I want to try it!”
Instructor said, “I knew he’d become a stud.”
Pirate bought him a farewell gift of one of the new green Jiu-Jitsu shirts, specific to our gym, so he won’t forget where he came from, I suppose.
Unfortunately, Blue Belt looks utterly insane in this picture. He also has his American flag mouthguard in still, which isn’t helping. On the other hand, I actually look decent for a post-class photo!
It was sad losing a “family” member who was one of the earliest students since the gym’s founding in 2020. Surfer Dude, then Balloon Man, then Blue Belt have been there the longest.
But back to ME. I was sad too, okay?! It was my last class with the old 3-per-week schedule.
Me with HRH/Mrs. Instructor, posted on the gym’s Instagram.
The biggest stressor in my life right now is an impossible deadline to finish book two of my YA trilogy. The editor said I should submit the sequel when book one is in presale. That’s possibly in September. Zero chance I’ll be done by then–with draft 1 and 2, maaayyybe, but the final, at least 20th, draft? Not a chance.
I need more time. There’s the job, the kids, the house, laundry, grocery shopping, cooking, checking 2nd grade math homework, etc. Something has to give. You may have already noticed blogging has mostly “given,” as in, I’ve not been around much.
There’s also the book reading. I have three for which I need to write reviews. And my boss wants me to clean up transcripts of interviews she’s done and compile them into a book.
She and I were at a conference recently where, at the “VIP poolside dinner,” I met a woman with the most intriguing story that includes seven years of homelessness before a radical transformation. When dinner was over and everyone stood, I ran to her side of the table and said, “You are so amazing. Will you please be my friend?”
My Jiu-Jitsu instructor came over to help when I was attempting to do a move with Hip Rad Heroine (Mark’s HRH guess). Instructor said something then, “Did you just roll your eyes at me?”
“What? No!” I said, horrified. “I just looked at her and then back at you.”
“Sheesh. The attitude on this one,” he said with an expression of wild disbelief.
At first I was mortified. Then I realized he was messing with me.
Another time, Instructor was heel hooking my good ankle–the one not wearing a protective sleeve.
Wrapped ankle on left in a blue shoe. On the right, pink shoe. I took this when I stepped out of the car in the Walmart parking lot. Leave it to me to wear mismatched shoes. I laughed then thought, “Well, this is Walmart. I’ll fit right in.”
Twice, my Jiu-Jitsu instructor has said to my partner, “She’s a blue belt now, so don’t take it easy on her.” I feel like that’s an indication that he’s proud of me. And that means a lot.
The first time was to Thoughtful One, who said to me, “I saw the video of you getting the belt. I’m sorry I missed it.”
“That’s okay. You were there for the important one. Well, the other important one.”
Here I go again. When I fill this card, I get a stripe on my belt.
The second time Instructor said that was to Balloon Man. I spotted Balloon Man looking at me, then quickly up and side to side as though attempting to avoid eye contact.
I stood at the end of the hallway as two of my girls wandered out of their room toward me. It was a delight to witness their wide-mouthed excitement as they took in my blue belt.
“You got it!” one said.
I stayed in my gi, waiting for Hubby to get home so I could likewise greet him.
When I did, he said, “I knew it. When you grabbed your belt on the way out, I almost said, ‘Do you think you’ll need that after tonight?’ But I didn’t want you to get inside your own head. Then when I got home and saw your belt missing from its usual place, I knew. You put it away because you no longer need it.” He smiled and nodded. “Somehow, I just knew you were getting the new one tonight.”
I was seriously impressed by his premonition. Then I relayed the events of the night, all of my failures and reprimands and terrible mistakes.
And it happened again.
I am not normally a crier, yet I was an exhausted, emotional wreck, shocked by the irony of the worst night ending in my greatest triumph. I was blubbering like a whale* (I just made that up) and shoving strips of napkin up my nose because we’re out of tissues. (You’re very welcome for the visual.)
“This happened, then this, and this,” all while Oldest Daughter and Hubby watched, mutely marveling at this rare display from a black and now blue–appropriately like a bruise–belt martial artist who can kill a man using just one of her legs.**
After getting all of this out, I began to remember good moments in the night’s class also.
The Taekwondo belt rack is temporarily hosting some new friends.
First, I got reprimanded for inadvertently insulting Balloon Man. When I lifted my head to explain, Instructor pushed it back down, silently saying, “Stop talking; do the move.” But at least, from what I glimpsed, Balloon Man did not appear insulted.
Nevertheless, I needed to keep mentally changing the subject afterward because being reprimanded by Instructor, which has happened three times now, makes me want to cry. I hate disappointing him.
Then it was roll time, and Instructor and Balloon Man sat right next to Money and me. I can barely function when I know he’s watching. I even said, “Do you really have to sit right there watching?”
Writing and Martial Arts 