Sensei keeps giving me zucchini from his garden. I’m out of oranges in exchange, so I have to dig into my chocolate stash to make up for it. (I think that’s all part of his diabolical plan.)
Several weeks ago, Neighbor texted several of us in the ‘hood, yo!
To which I responded…
Recapping again: I got off track with my Tae Kwon Do belts when I busted my foot, ankle, and (later discovered) tibia at the end of September. Pretty much recovered, I got another belt (then only one behind my daughters) and was going to be fully caught up at the beginning of May except for tearing two ligaments and bruising two bone plates in my knee two days beforehand. (When I texted Sensei from urgent care telling him no belt testing for me, he didn’t believe me until I sent him a pic of my braced-up knee in a wheelchair.)
So, last week, when I finally FINALLY tested for red/black belt, it was kind of a big deal.
Some of you may recall that the pressure of testing tends to get to me a wee bit. For instance, Sensei has said not to do the forms too quickly because I want to show off that I know each move.
Yeah, so much for that. I moved like I was being chased by a ravenous lion and the only way to keep from being eaten was to distract him by my weird, confusing, albeit somewhat impressive he’s thinking, movements.
Another fun part was, though my girls were doing the forms with me, I knew full well I was the only one being watched, as I was the only one being tested. Normally, two people test at a time, and whenever I’ve messed up, I can tell myself, “Sensei was watching the other person at that particular moment.”
I’m not above lying to myself to get through these things.
My starting position was such that I wound up moving to mere feet from Sensei as I made my one and only major flub–probably because I was aware that he was Right. There.
Groan.
I seriously considered
A few weeks back, we did bar trivia with another couple and won first place. We nearly didn’t, though. A tie breaker question was required. “What is the name of the company I work for?” the woman running the show asked.
Silence.
Then I thought, it must be on the screen somewhere. Of everyone in the room, I was seated closest, so I could easily read the small URL at the top, which included the words: Trivia Goat. Thus, I yelled it with gusto.
I kind of felt bad for the other would-be winners. Their table was much farther away.
Ah well.
Bolstered by the win and the $20 brewery gift card that could only be used on a subsequent visit, we returned a few weeks later with this same couple and wound up tying again!
For 8th/9th place. There was no tie-breaker to determine which of our two teams was the greater loser, but at least our beer was covered by our prior-won gift card.
Our foursome realized that being all of the same age-range was a detriment. We didn’t know 80s music or modern pop culture. What was required for maximum win-potential was a smattering of ages on our team. So whom did I reach out to for my Master Plan of Bar Trivia Domination?
Here’s a little recap in case you need it: If all had gone according to plan, I would have gotten my red belt in Taekwondo with my three daughters at the beginning of April. Instead, thanks to that Jiu-Jitsu injury that kept me from walking for 3.5 months, I got behind and was only able to test for brown in April.
Then, because of my “expert” negotiation skills, I “convinced” Sensei to let me test early for red and get caught back up to my girls. All would be right in the world again. I was fully back on my feet, slated to test for my red belt May 1. But on April 29, exactly nine months after my foot/ankle injury, I busted my knee.
Some of those who saw me on crutches YET AGAIN so soon said, “Man, maybe it’s time for Betsy to quit martial arts.”
I did not consider that an option.
Though I wasn’t able to catch up, I was at last(!) able to test for red this past week, which included some board breaks.
Trigger warning: I’m about to talk about another injury. If you’ve experienced Betsy Injury Trauma, you may want to move along.
But, for a delightful change of pace, I didn’t damage my left foot. Not even a foot!
This time it was my right knee. I dropped a larger-than-me human on top of it.
At the end of my women’s self defense class (the irony), one woman asked if I could go off-curriculum and show them how to throw someone over one’s back. No problem, but I didn’t stop to think that she was much heavier than I.
She landed on my leg, which elicited an audible “crack.”
But first, the test. As always, I messed a couple things up because testing makes me nervous, but I recovered quickly and my flubs may have gone unnoticed. Also, I got to do this:
My daughter videoed this for me. I sent it to my mom and then to Sensei noting that I wasn’t too old to proudly show my mommy my board break. He responded:
The girls’ red belts are beautiful. Hopefully I’ll get mine soon. That test requires kicking a board, so… yeah. Hopefully I don’t injure my good foot. But also, whatever. At this point, I no longer care.
I just hope the board doesn’t look like this:
Last Friday, when Hubby and I attended a gig for that local band I’m fond of, I spotted someone who maybe sort of looked familiar.
“Do you see that man over there in the white jacket?” I asked Hubby. “Is that the guy I had the snowball fight with?”
Hubby wasn’t sure, but he knew who I meant. For my birthday two years ago, I booked the band at a brewery where I was friends with the bartender. I had gotten permission from him to bring 150 fake snowballs. One man in attendance that night was particularly into the ensuing fight, especially when it came to throwing snowballs at me.
“Should I ask if it’s him?” I said to Hubby.
“If you want,” he said, not nearly as perplexed by this mystery as I was.
But how to broach the subject with this possible total stranger? “Did I have an epic snowball battle with you nearly two years ago?” Or perhaps I would start slower: “Have you heard this band play before? Do you remember a time they played and there was a snowball fight?”
Without fully figuring out my approach, but curiosity getting the better of me, I announced, “I’m going to go find out.”
I’m a big fan of the book, Never Split the Difference, by former FBI hostage negotiator, Chris Voss. I geared up to put his principles into practice: I was going to ask Sensei to let me catch up to my girls in Tae Kwon Do, despite my four-month absence and his seemingly strict testing rules.
Asking him to deviate from a system he’s been using for two decades for my sake was a big ask.
I planned my approach. I would start with a “no” question a la Voss, ie: “Would it be impossible for me to get caught up to my girls?”
The idea is, with that wording, he’d likely say, “No,” which is what I wanted.
I had four points, Sensei’s possible counter-points, and my counter to those counters all ready to go, practicing them in my head for several days in advance.
When the night in question came, I prepped my girls to go directly to the van after class, so I could talk to Sensei alone.
My nerves ran high as Sensei and I meandered to the parking lot. I listened patiently as he talked about his parkour gym, finding people to video his jumps so he could analyze his technique, taking videos for others for the same reason, the open gym policy, the hours, the classes, exactly where the gym was located, that it might be near that one rock climbing gym…
Finally, he wound himself down. My heart pounding, I steadied and readied myself for the attack.
“So,” I began. “Do you think it would be possible for me to catch up with my girls?”
Darn it! That was not the “No” answer question I had so carefully prepped!
He responded immediately.
Long-time readers know this person. Some may have read the title and known right away who this post would be about. (If you did, let me know in the comments. Now I’m curious.)
I was doing a free gym trial, figuring it would be a good way to rebuild leg muscle, when I ran into an old friend.
I hadn’t seen the Chex Mix Guy in more than a year. He was smaller than I remembered, in every way.
Gone was the cheerful, funny man who brought us twelve posts-worth of entertainment. Heartbreak had made him cynical, filled with career ambition and little else.
One thing I’ll note for my future self: When I told him about falling to the bottom in my martial arts classes, he said, “That gives you a goal to aim for. Work your way back to the top.” That was thoughtful of him.
When we were through catching up, he grabbed his phone to choose the next song for his air buds. I took two steps and turned back around.
“This is weird,” I said.
“What is?”
“This is the last time I will ever see or speak to you.”
So here’s what happened:
On January 9, I finally saw a specialist about the Jiu-Jitsu accident that happened September 29. He took one look at my foot and said, “You’ve got Complex Regional Pain Syndrome, which can happen after a surgery or trauma.”
According to Wikipedia: “CRPS is any of several painful conditions that are characterized by a continuing regional pain that is seemingly disproportionate in time or degree to the usual course of any known trauma or other lesion.”
In other words, I developed a condition that means taking a stupidly long time to heal.
Figures.
He knew it on sight from the discoloration of my foot. Brace yourselves, I’m including a pic.
Writing and Martial Arts 