“Adrian Brody” and I were the only Jiu Jitsu students one day, so we were partners by default. The dude barely touched me. Either I said something about not needing to take it so easy, or Instructor did, or both.

Adrian said, “I don’t want to hurt [infinitesimal pause] anyone.”

Clearly, “anyone” meant me. He wasn’t in danger of hurting the instructor. Reminder: Instructor is my size, though a smidge taller and with bigger biceps. At my first class, I was distracted by the realization that a man could have legs as skinny as mine.

Adrian is skinnier still.

So, Adrian was taking it easy on me, when maybe it should’ve been the other way around. *I* don’t hold back, however, because I’m a girl.

Wanna know who else doesn’t hold back? The teenage girl I naturally paired with during a rare evening class.

She. Trounced. Me.

Are you reading this, MOM?! That’s right–the men are nice to me. The female beat me up! [My mother gives me a hard time in the comments about training with men.]

Seriously, this girl may have bruised a rib. Or I pulled a muscle trying to get away from her. She’s not even a big girl, by any means, but this chic knows her stuff. I want to be like her when I grow… well, never mind.

The last portion of class was a “practice what you know”/ free for all. She was twisting me this and way that before I knew WHAT was happening. She ended with trapping my arm painfully out from my side.

“Whoa. What was that move?” I asked her.

“The Americana.”

“Isn’t that a type of coffee?” was my first thought, which I wisely kept to myself.

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