I always figured martial arts was something that you either picked-up as a kid and stuck with it as your Sport-of-Choice, or you didn't bother unless something really awful happened to you later in life. Well, I never picked it up when I was a kid and I began once I met my husband... I'll let you be the judge.

Anyway, I kick butt. Literally. I'm aiming for my black belt and managed to collect quite a few trophies in the Tri-State Tournaments. The judges don't quite know what to do with a less-then-meek chica with a more-than-average physique who can still belt out the kiais and katas alike. I admit I am no longer the buff, body-building babe back when I was a bouncer in a London pub¹, but I do get by.

I encourage anyone with an ounce of sense to check out a dojo nearest you! It's great exercise (warning: you will sweat, even ladies go way past "glisten" into "dripping"); it's a really fun way to meet people while booting them in the head; it's a great de-stressing tool that won't have you going postal or getting arrested, and you'll actually be training your body to do something useful!² My advice? Sit-in for a class: see if you like the teacher, if the style suit your body type; do the people seem friendly and in-control or a bunch of macho assholes? And for G-d's sakes, follow these simple rules of thumb:

When I was a wee white belt, I was paired with a tiny fireball of a brown belt who impressed the hell out of me during my first chance at sparring. My pint-sized partner came up to my collarbone; I had easy reach but was hesitant and inexperienced while she was bright-eyed and bouncy. Two jabs and suddenly a foot appeared and halted almost magically at my throat, hovering to touch my trachea ever so slightly. I had never seen a sock so close in all my life.

Feet, being the natural ending to the most powerfully-muscled limb on the body, do an impressive amount of damage and I realized this first-hand when practicing ax-kicks in the air. This kick that slams down with the heel of your foot and can do amazing amounts of damage...especially if you misjudge your ability to catch your leg's full arc and ax-kick the floor which, incidently, has insufficient padding due to a mishap with the carpeting company who installed it.

A bruised heel is obscenely painful since it's used for everyday functions like walking to work, dancing in the kitchen and moving kittens away from the front door while carrying groceries in both arms. Everyday life is rarely the same for many months.

If you think I am kidding, ask any semi-serious athlete how it feels to "pull your groin" and the first reaction is always the same: a clenched-teeth grimace and a hissing/sucking sound as all the air escapes their lungs in sympathetic pity. Yep, it's nasty.

Most women laugh nervously when swiveling their hips to loosen the joints or try not to think about how fat their thighs look in the mirror when bracing their knee for lower back and hip-flexor stretches. Men usually pump up and look cool about their routine, admiring more than muscle in their splayed-leg reflections.³ But let me tell you, when I pulled a muscle I never knew existed somewhere behind my behind (i.e. the pierformas lies beneath the gluteus maximus), my main mode of locomotion became staggering slowly, and I lost many advantages dear to me including weeks of martial arts as well as marital bliss.

Lesson learned: stretch in the weirdest ways to avoid lifus interruptus!

I can't tell you how many people I know who have injured themselves on themselves; or, more specifically, their uniform.⁴ The gi is the Jedi-ish starchy pantsuit that wraps like a bathrobe and is the universal sign for Able-And-Willing-To-Soak-Damage.⁵ What the gi lacks in individuality it makes up for in a slightly more generous wingspan in the sleeves and pantlegs, making a very impressive snapping noise when a punch is well-timed and a even more impressive snapping noise when a small flange snags a seam.

Let me elucidate: when performing any strike or block which is "open" like a claw or triggered finger as opposed to a "closed" one like a fist or palm, you run the risk of having a finger shoot past the body towards a target and getting waylaid by hooking onto a loose fold of material or endseam, and the offending body part will inevitably lose the match.⁶ Me? I practiced a downward block as part of my kata and snapped my pinky with a satisfying crack. I marveled at how loud such a tiny bone could be as I sat on the floor muttering "ouch" and waited for the sparks in front of my eyes to fade. Smart fighters would be well-advised to roll-up their sleeves and sew them in place.

This, in the martial arts, can be taken literally. As a lower-ranking belt, you don't have the training to throw a partner across the room. Thus, it is understandable, nay, requisite that you not have to trust a low-rank over-much, as they have a tendency to ax-kick floors and snap their own fingers when you least expect it. As a higher-ranking martial artist, you have mastered the technique of grounding your center and spilling another human body across the mat using a well-placed wrist and bending of the knees.⁷ Thus, you can trust a higher-ranking martial artist has the control and knowledge about what to do with you as a partner that will do minimal harm to themselves or your self.

That's the theory anyway.

I have been working with the same crew for almost two years. They are a great bunch, but each has their own advantages and disadvantages.⁸ My "noon-class partner" is a man whom I shall call "Ichabod" after the character in question. He is a tall, lean, muscular guy with a ponytail down to his butt and every joint on his limbs end in a sharp angle. I have learned this through many take-downs and arm-wraps which sport "Ichabod-elbow bruises" all along my arms and ribs when we get particularly repetitive. Ichabod beat me to black belt owing mostly to my long absences from weddings, family trips and automotive accidents. We're good friends.

So given my theory, I should be able to trust Ichabod pretty far: we can both toss the other around and not manage undo harm. Oh sure, we've clocked one another time and again, banged-knuckles or mis-thrown punches to the head, but nothing serious. When it's time to practice, there are two roles: the one who is practicing and the one who punches-in. The role of the Practicing is to do the form to the best of his/her ability and take care not to let the "attacker" get out of control. Control is what keeps people safe. The role of the Puncher-In is to aim straight, step-in to close the distance and not resist the Practice: trust and relax. If you resist, you can do yourself and your partner undo damage.

My final brown belt test was to be Saturday. This being Thursday, I was in for my brush-up class, having taken Wednesday and Friday off before the massive ordeal I had been training for over these long months since my last unfortunate accident.⁹ Ichabod, Ichabod's co-worker Kaylah, and I were merrily going through all ten-to-thirty or so of our combinations on one another. Ichabod was on 29 when it hit me. Actually, he hit me. He trapped my fist (the correct block-and-trap), locked the arm (a wrench at the shoulder, no problem) bent my spine back, (fine, I'm used to this) and then WHAM!

In the instant of impact, everything goes white and deaf. I blinked up at Ichabod and my instructor and realized that the whole dojo was indeed dead quiet. It was not just in my head which I had lost somewhere around here...

"Are you okay?"

I reached up for my neck and felt it there. On the floor. "No."

Ichabod was straight-lining. "Shock or pain?"

"Shock, I think." I got up still holding my neck. My back tingled.

The second instructor came into the room. His young students were eerily silent.

"What was that?"

"Me." I croaked. The group debated the finer points of 29 combination as I massaged my spinal column to feel if anything was out-of-whack. My instructor sicced Ichabod on Kaylah for the rest of the class.

"This still hurts." I said wondrously. I couldn't believe that it did. I must've suffered worse falls than this.

"Did you hit your head?"

"I don't think so." I honestly couldn't say whether I had or not. I got the number of the local chiropractor and got in the car to go to work. The chiropractor's office was closed. I was blinking a lot at the road, which worried me. My head was still aching and I felt vaguely sick. I phoned Jon.

"Can you give me Dr. Kay's office number?"

"What happened?" Jon's used to me by now.

"I got injured in class and my neck's killing me. My eyes hurt and I feel nauseous."

He gave me the number and told me to call him right back. Dr. Kay was out for the week. My head began to pound and my stomach rolled with each thump. Shock wore off and I began to cry...I had the vague feeling that if I kept blinking, I'd pass out at the wheel and die.¹⁰ I phoned Jon.

"Go to the emergency room."

"No! Not again." Having just visited the emergency room lately, I had no wish to experience another 5-7 hour wait punctuated by tests that never returned and the inability to do anything without my GP's consent.¹¹

"Don't be stupid. You may have a concussion."

"I'll call you from work."

"If you need me, I'll come get you."

At work, I realized immediately that something was wrong. Besides being told I looked terrible from otherwise polite co-workers, I couldn't seem to manage basic math for reimbursement processing and my typing was a mess: letters got switched-around and so was my speech pattern. Spoonerisms having never been my strongest suit until just that afternoon.

"I've got to go." I announced to no one. I phoned Jon in a haze and he drove me to the walk-in Ambulatory Care Unit.

The diagnosis read minor whiplash/mild concussion - just enough pain to make me miss my karate test and a free weekend before recovering just enough to get swamped on Monday making up for the work I missed. Ichabod emailed to wish me well and ask if I was mad that he made me miss my test.

"Nah," I assured him, "just make sure you're wearing your cup."

Trust is a beautiful thing. And I can throw him pretty far.

---

1. Yep, this is true. Long story.

2. I mean, c'mon. How often in your life will you be called upon to run up fifty flights of stairs or crunch a heavy, padded load using only your abdomen? I bet there's been at least a dozen times where you really wish you could kick someone in the head!

3. I hypothesize it has something to do with football. You know that sport where men reach between other men's legs, grab balls and then dive into a swarm of masculine bodies ending plays with a congratulatory pat on the tush? Yeah, there's something there...

4. Honestly, I can't tell you. I know of at least one: me. But I can't be the only one! Right? Right?

5. Much like the "red shirt" uniform in Star Trek.

6. If, and I stress if, you have done the move correctly, i.e. at full power. Nothing is so embarrassing as having caught yourself on your gi sleeve and pulled your finger backwards only to say, "Ow, waitaminute..." If you're striking or blocking at full speed, it snaps like a pencil in detention.

7. I know at least four maneuvers that do this.

8. Little Miss Fireball from point #1 is an excellent partner with superb control but her tiny body makes it tough to practice on without feeling like a big bully. Another favorite fellah is wonderful at not "treating me like a lady" and throwing/punching without reserve, but his jokes are enough to do severe mental trauma. You get the picture.

9. If you can possibly avoid having an emergency appendectomy done, do so. 'Nuff said.

10. This would be a sad crime: the only accident caused by the driver and not a demonized vehicle.

11. Ah, the health-care system...how oxymoronic. See Footnote #9.