Sometimes I look upon my blog as a therapeutic venue for unburdening my heavy bosom. And by heavy bosom, I don't mean large pendulous breasts, but rather that things weigh heavily upon my mind. Which is not my bosom. And as far as I know they are not used as synonyms for one another. So I'm kind of lost right now in figurative speech. I should stick to the literal, it's where the world makes sense.
Anyway, there are times when things happen that are so alarming, so unexpectedly traumatic, that the only way to deal with it is to write about it, maybe relieve yourself a little of the experience. And that is where I find myself right now--in the highly agitated state, needing to lay open my psyche (all right, that's severe hyperbole; I mostly plan to just write a small vignette as usual, there will be no actual openness or psyche butterflying).
Without further ado, because so far it's been nothing but, I will sum up the evening thus: My mom said the "c" word. That's right, rhymes with blunt. It's maybe the only word in the English language that I can't say, well, I'm not overly fond of "moist" but if I have to compliment a cake, sometimes that's really what it is, moist. Good quality for cakes. Horrifying, awful word probably invented by Satan. Clearly I am not focused tonight at all. I think the trauma of my mom saying the big C probably has caused some synaptic misfiring. She usually only says things like "tinkle" and "toot".
In defense of my mom, she was explaining her use of "twat". Which was brought up at the dinner table as we were reminiscing about letters found at my grandma's after she died. In one letter from my mom she had referred to my sister's twat. Just like that. Written down, in cursive even. So as I was expressing my horror tonight at my mom's use of crass terminology, she somehow compared it to the c-word. Just dropped the c-bomb casually, right over the meatloaf. Like, what's the big deal with twat? It's kind of just like saying *and here is where it happened*, right? Whereupon I fell off my chair as the fabric of space and time was rent asunder, and matter ceased to exist as we know it but rather took the form of sine waves, undulating relentlessly across the dinner table.
Mother of Ganesh, I still do not know what to make of it all. Out of left field, that's what it was. Rather than trying to figure it out, apply meaning and value to it, and sort it into my personal life history, I'm going to go with short, possibly entertaining blog story, written at the expense of my sanity.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Addendum To The Addendum
Everything I said in the previous post remains in effect except that I got 100%, zero wrong so clearly there is nothing wrong with adding a little sport to exam taking.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Confessional Addendum
After posting my tendency toward test competitiveness, I resolved to be less concerned with being the first person handing in their test. Then yesterday I had a nutrition exam, which was actually pretty cool, lots of biochemistry which I like, and it all went out the window. I totally won, not only was first, but as I walked out I shamelessly looked at other people's tests and they were maybe only 20% done. I owned that class.
The purpose of the confession is public shame. Sometimes that's a good way to change.
The purpose of the confession is public shame. Sometimes that's a good way to change.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Olympics, But Different
At times I can be competitive as hell. Like for instance in taking tests. Ever since I was a kid I've been the rocket fast test-taker and I consider it a given that I'll be the first one finished. And usually by a long shot. It's because of my lightning fast reading skillz combined with the reflexes of a jungle cat that allow me to blaze through with pencil in hand. Anyway, today I had an A&P exam and I was all kinds of confident about it, but told myself to take my time because there were many potential pitfalls (tons of questions like this: if this increases or decreases, then this other thing will increase or decrease?). With speed can come mistakes, though I do generally have a high degree of accuracy due to the aforementioned test taking traits.
So I was all taking my time, and trying really hard to not feel like it was a race, when this fucker walked past me and turned in his test. I spent the next few questions deflecting my inner fuming, struggling with much might to not become distracted by his audacity and fuckeriness. I actually told myself, "Self, it is not a race. You did not lose. Please continue with test taking, because you are not a fifth grade boy with test competitiveness." I am not proud to report that I then amplified my test velocity by a factor of about 2.5. Like I said, not proud. Toward the end of my pencil flying, brain straining, anatomical and physiological feat of speed, I realized that I was just being a complete turd muffin and came to my senses. Actually a part of that realization may have occurred due to another dude turning in his test, so I was automatically in third at this point and so I felt like it was all over anyway because who wants to be striving for third or worse? And I could totally tell that that second guy was totally not cool at all, probably just has his mom cook him dinner while he studies and sharpens his pencils for the test in the morning so he can be all fast. Also he is probably just fast not smart and maybe even flunked the test or only filled in some of the circles.
So I took my time, actually reviewed my answers which I rarely do just on principle, and very self-righteously turned in my test like fourth or fifth without even caring at all, not even a little. If those other fuckers want to try to be the fastest that's fine with me because they probably get all their answers wrong or their filling in is probably uneven and out of the lines.
So I was all taking my time, and trying really hard to not feel like it was a race, when this fucker walked past me and turned in his test. I spent the next few questions deflecting my inner fuming, struggling with much might to not become distracted by his audacity and fuckeriness. I actually told myself, "Self, it is not a race. You did not lose. Please continue with test taking, because you are not a fifth grade boy with test competitiveness." I am not proud to report that I then amplified my test velocity by a factor of about 2.5. Like I said, not proud. Toward the end of my pencil flying, brain straining, anatomical and physiological feat of speed, I realized that I was just being a complete turd muffin and came to my senses. Actually a part of that realization may have occurred due to another dude turning in his test, so I was automatically in third at this point and so I felt like it was all over anyway because who wants to be striving for third or worse? And I could totally tell that that second guy was totally not cool at all, probably just has his mom cook him dinner while he studies and sharpens his pencils for the test in the morning so he can be all fast. Also he is probably just fast not smart and maybe even flunked the test or only filled in some of the circles.
So I took my time, actually reviewed my answers which I rarely do just on principle, and very self-righteously turned in my test like fourth or fifth without even caring at all, not even a little. If those other fuckers want to try to be the fastest that's fine with me because they probably get all their answers wrong or their filling in is probably uneven and out of the lines.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Athlete's Foot?
Holy Mary, Mother of God. A recent gym experience, and by recent I mean about 15 minutes ago whereupon I rushed home to blog it out. I'm still not okay:
There I was, the gym, 2010. I'm in the locker room, putting on pants. A girl walks by me to get to the locker two down from mine. She appears completely healthy, not disabled, and particular about her looks. I sit down to put on my socks and shoes, on the bench provided for such purposes. Out of the corner of my eye, because that is the only sanctioned way to look at others in locker rooms, I notice that she is sitting on the floor. I think to myself, "Hmmm, that's weird. No one really sits on the locker room floor." As I get up to grab my jacket, I take a closer look, risking the awkwardness of the direct stare. Right then she takes her swimsuit bottoms out from her gym bag, and puts them next to her. This is the moment where I notice that SHE IS NAKED FROM THE WAIST DOWN. This is usually not a caps-worthy, incredibly alarming situation, because locker rooms are full of nudity. I engage in it myself, often. But SHE IS SITTING ON THE FLOOR, WITH NOTHING ON HER NETHERS.
Oh my god. I'm hyperventilating. Her cooch was right on the locker room floor. Why in the fuck would you allow your cooch to be on such a pestilent offensive surface? I think the grossest thing I would ever allow my cooch to come in contact with would be, I don't know, nothing gross at all, ever? I had a moment where I considered the view that one's morals might compel one to casually point out the cooch violation, but honestly I was flustered in the extreme by the horror and did not feel I could step in as professionally as I would hope. I mean, I don't even think Herpie Julie from high school would be so undiscriminating, and she was quite free with her lady parts. This free-cooching foot germ disregarder, where is she going to stop after this? She could very well be on her way to vagging up a drinking fountain handle, or riding the subway pantsless. I'm picturing an intervention for her in the form of a SARS-like mask for her cooch.
It was all just very, very disturbing.
There I was, the gym, 2010. I'm in the locker room, putting on pants. A girl walks by me to get to the locker two down from mine. She appears completely healthy, not disabled, and particular about her looks. I sit down to put on my socks and shoes, on the bench provided for such purposes. Out of the corner of my eye, because that is the only sanctioned way to look at others in locker rooms, I notice that she is sitting on the floor. I think to myself, "Hmmm, that's weird. No one really sits on the locker room floor." As I get up to grab my jacket, I take a closer look, risking the awkwardness of the direct stare. Right then she takes her swimsuit bottoms out from her gym bag, and puts them next to her. This is the moment where I notice that SHE IS NAKED FROM THE WAIST DOWN. This is usually not a caps-worthy, incredibly alarming situation, because locker rooms are full of nudity. I engage in it myself, often. But SHE IS SITTING ON THE FLOOR, WITH NOTHING ON HER NETHERS.
Oh my god. I'm hyperventilating. Her cooch was right on the locker room floor. Why in the fuck would you allow your cooch to be on such a pestilent offensive surface? I think the grossest thing I would ever allow my cooch to come in contact with would be, I don't know, nothing gross at all, ever? I had a moment where I considered the view that one's morals might compel one to casually point out the cooch violation, but honestly I was flustered in the extreme by the horror and did not feel I could step in as professionally as I would hope. I mean, I don't even think Herpie Julie from high school would be so undiscriminating, and she was quite free with her lady parts. This free-cooching foot germ disregarder, where is she going to stop after this? She could very well be on her way to vagging up a drinking fountain handle, or riding the subway pantsless. I'm picturing an intervention for her in the form of a SARS-like mask for her cooch.
It was all just very, very disturbing.
Monday, February 15, 2010
Weird Al
Holy fuck, I love my kids. Here's why: They are newly obsessed with Weird Al Yankovic and seriously love his songs. It's a toss up right now between "Eat It" and "Amish Paradise". Both worthy, for sure. Anyway the littler one tries so hard to keep up with his big brother, who is quickly learning the words to these songs and singing them incessantly. So today I heard him in the backseat....
"As I walk through the valley where I harvest my brain, I take a look at my wife and realize she's very plain."
Harvest. My. Brain.
Possibly one of the best phrases of all time.
"As I walk through the valley where I harvest my brain, I take a look at my wife and realize she's very plain."
Harvest. My. Brain.
Possibly one of the best phrases of all time.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Legal Matters
One thing I've been thinking about since last summer or so is changing my name. No, not my first name, that's perfectly serviceable as Marilla would say (please, please let there be just one person who can relate to my deep love for all things Anne of Green Gables). But when I got divorced, I kept my everything the same because the boys were truly distressed at the thought of the three of us not having the same last name. I didn't really care at the time, so I went with it. It seemed like small potatoes indeed in light of the total upheaval of life as they knew it.
Since that time, I've grown very tired of still being identified as someone's wife by my last name. It feels less and less like it belongs to me, and more like a burden or a residual mark of a life gone past. As I embark on career-type paths and discover new uses for the tapeworm, I'd like to see all the letters and accolades accumulate behind my real name, the one I grew up with.
On the other hand, this would be a great opportunity to come up with and adopt a world-class unique personalized name. It's a chance to express my innermost qualities and values, all wrapped up into a kick ass moniker that I could sign with a big fat flourish. Someone suggested Marvella, which I think has a certain ring to it and I'm putting it on the list for sure. Other possibilities include Reckonwith, Peacock, and Cineplex. I'm also not ruling out Pingpong. I'm very open to suggestions so let it fly if you come up with something that just screams my last name.
Since that time, I've grown very tired of still being identified as someone's wife by my last name. It feels less and less like it belongs to me, and more like a burden or a residual mark of a life gone past. As I embark on career-type paths and discover new uses for the tapeworm, I'd like to see all the letters and accolades accumulate behind my real name, the one I grew up with.
On the other hand, this would be a great opportunity to come up with and adopt a world-class unique personalized name. It's a chance to express my innermost qualities and values, all wrapped up into a kick ass moniker that I could sign with a big fat flourish. Someone suggested Marvella, which I think has a certain ring to it and I'm putting it on the list for sure. Other possibilities include Reckonwith, Peacock, and Cineplex. I'm also not ruling out Pingpong. I'm very open to suggestions so let it fly if you come up with something that just screams my last name.
Curling!!
I love the winter Olympics, more than the summer ones even though probably the summer sports are more conventionally awesome, like pole vault and steeplechase. But the Winter Games, they are the less ripped and dorkier cousin of the Summer Games, and I favor the tiny nerd in this case. My main reasons are:
Curling. Quite possibly the coolest, most random sport besides maybe lawn jarts. You can be a fat lazy bastard and still curl. And the frantic brooming.....oh, the frantic brooming. You cannot keep cynicism in your heart when you watch the broomers. They so earnestly and sincerely want the stone to land well and heroically broom toward that end. It makes me want to eat that oatmeal-in-a-stomach shit, just to honor the roots of the curling.
Luge. Not quite so light hearted this year, what with the recent luging death on the icy track of despair, but still the luge is fantastically exciting, not for reasons unjustified as it turns out. I mean, that's what we've all expected all along, and why it's so thrilling to watch--at any moment, someone could fly off the track and die instantly. Like two days ago. Rest in peace, Georgian Luger, and I'm glad you made it to the Olympics. There's a bit of cosmic balance there, I guess.
Ski jumping. Mainly cool because the angle of the ski jumpers legs to their skis amuses me greatly. I do not know why.
Men's Figure Skating. With all due respect to the artistry and athleticism of the sport, there is always one crazypants who insists on trailing flowing scarves as part of his costume. Any time you get someone doing physical interpretations of song I'm totally in. There's no chance it's not going to be funny.
So for two weeks, I will be immersed in the Winter Olympics of 2010. Inasmuch as I get immersed in anything that is not me actually doing a sport, or reading. So I guess I will be intermittently watching the Winter Games, as time permits and when I feel like it.
Curling. Quite possibly the coolest, most random sport besides maybe lawn jarts. You can be a fat lazy bastard and still curl. And the frantic brooming.....oh, the frantic brooming. You cannot keep cynicism in your heart when you watch the broomers. They so earnestly and sincerely want the stone to land well and heroically broom toward that end. It makes me want to eat that oatmeal-in-a-stomach shit, just to honor the roots of the curling.
Luge. Not quite so light hearted this year, what with the recent luging death on the icy track of despair, but still the luge is fantastically exciting, not for reasons unjustified as it turns out. I mean, that's what we've all expected all along, and why it's so thrilling to watch--at any moment, someone could fly off the track and die instantly. Like two days ago. Rest in peace, Georgian Luger, and I'm glad you made it to the Olympics. There's a bit of cosmic balance there, I guess.
Ski jumping. Mainly cool because the angle of the ski jumpers legs to their skis amuses me greatly. I do not know why.
Men's Figure Skating. With all due respect to the artistry and athleticism of the sport, there is always one crazypants who insists on trailing flowing scarves as part of his costume. Any time you get someone doing physical interpretations of song I'm totally in. There's no chance it's not going to be funny.
So for two weeks, I will be immersed in the Winter Olympics of 2010. Inasmuch as I get immersed in anything that is not me actually doing a sport, or reading. So I guess I will be intermittently watching the Winter Games, as time permits and when I feel like it.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Wilbur
In direct opposition to the theme of my most recent smoothie-obsessed post, I write to inform all that the problem I am facing at this moment is the large amount of bacon grease in my hair. It would appear that the deities of health food not only smote me today for my self-righteous smoothie-drinking vitamin-enhanced swagger, but laughed ironically as they did so.
There I was, kitchen, 2010. I was getting my smoothie ingredients all packed into the blender, adding frozen blueberries today to increase my intake of awesomeness, when the oven timer went off. I bent over to remove the chicken (that phrase rules on so many levels, mostly perverted ones)(okay, I'm still laughing a little bit) and had one of those moments where you hear a loud noise, get hit with something, and have a few moments where you are completely unable to figure out what just happened. I realized soon enough that my glass of bacon fat, the one that I keep on the top edge of the stove, the one that for some reason I'm inordinately proud of because I feel it is a sign of commitment to disregard all things arterial, had fallen down and hit the stovetop, spewing forth its slightly melted contents. Next I realized that bacon fat is hard to see through when it coats the surface of your eyeball. It didn't hurt but made things blurry and it can't be good to have bacon fat in your eye. My retina might get clogged.
It would appear that bacon fat travels far, as the spatter patterns were wild and showed clear evidence of high velocity upon contact with the floor, oven, and my head. Of course I declared a state of emergency and banned all passersby (two little curly-headed boys, mainly) from entering the bacon fat zone. I reached into my knowledge of lipids vs. detergents and eliminated the problem from the floor, assuring safety for all. However my hair seems to be resisting efforts to de-baconify (I believe that should be pronounced de-buh-KAHN-uh-fy). It no longer feels greasy after intensive repeated shampooing, but there remains an aura of Sunday breakfast about my person. I will readdress it in the morning, or possibly just serve all day as positive breakfast associations for the public at large.
P.S. It is from beef bacon.
There I was, kitchen, 2010. I was getting my smoothie ingredients all packed into the blender, adding frozen blueberries today to increase my intake of awesomeness, when the oven timer went off. I bent over to remove the chicken (that phrase rules on so many levels, mostly perverted ones)(okay, I'm still laughing a little bit) and had one of those moments where you hear a loud noise, get hit with something, and have a few moments where you are completely unable to figure out what just happened. I realized soon enough that my glass of bacon fat, the one that I keep on the top edge of the stove, the one that for some reason I'm inordinately proud of because I feel it is a sign of commitment to disregard all things arterial, had fallen down and hit the stovetop, spewing forth its slightly melted contents. Next I realized that bacon fat is hard to see through when it coats the surface of your eyeball. It didn't hurt but made things blurry and it can't be good to have bacon fat in your eye. My retina might get clogged.
It would appear that bacon fat travels far, as the spatter patterns were wild and showed clear evidence of high velocity upon contact with the floor, oven, and my head. Of course I declared a state of emergency and banned all passersby (two little curly-headed boys, mainly) from entering the bacon fat zone. I reached into my knowledge of lipids vs. detergents and eliminated the problem from the floor, assuring safety for all. However my hair seems to be resisting efforts to de-baconify (I believe that should be pronounced de-buh-KAHN-uh-fy). It no longer feels greasy after intensive repeated shampooing, but there remains an aura of Sunday breakfast about my person. I will readdress it in the morning, or possibly just serve all day as positive breakfast associations for the public at large.
P.S. It is from beef bacon.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Popeye Puree
One thing I'm obsessed with lately is the smoothie. Not just any smoothie, the green smoothie. I'm becoming a smoothie evangelist, in fact, because I think they're so awesome. Here's why:
1.) They taste probably as awesome as hard boiled eggs, or even maybe as awesome as something from the State Fair.
2.) Every time I make one I kind of stand there for a while admiring the color. I really like the color of them.
3.) My kids are slamming spinach like it's FunDip.
4.) Maybe it counts toward my water intake, and tastes much better than boring wet water.
So to make the smoothie, I stuff raw baby spinach leaves into the blender. Then I add some orange juice. Then I add banana and mango chunks, and sometimes ice cubes if I'm feeling like I need some ice cubes. Last I drizzle in just a little agave, unless the bananas are really ripe. I do that mainly because the kids like them a little sweeter, for me I don't care. Then I blend that fucker up, which I find very satisfying. I like the destruction aspect of the smoothie. It seems good for the soul. Anyway, if I'm feeling very special I'll chill a glass because warm smoothie is a little disgusting. Then I drink it self-righteously.
So go forth and make smoothies! Or send smoothie supplies and a brand new Vitamix to my house. KTHXBAI
1.) They taste probably as awesome as hard boiled eggs, or even maybe as awesome as something from the State Fair.
2.) Every time I make one I kind of stand there for a while admiring the color. I really like the color of them.
3.) My kids are slamming spinach like it's FunDip.
4.) Maybe it counts toward my water intake, and tastes much better than boring wet water.
So to make the smoothie, I stuff raw baby spinach leaves into the blender. Then I add some orange juice. Then I add banana and mango chunks, and sometimes ice cubes if I'm feeling like I need some ice cubes. Last I drizzle in just a little agave, unless the bananas are really ripe. I do that mainly because the kids like them a little sweeter, for me I don't care. Then I blend that fucker up, which I find very satisfying. I like the destruction aspect of the smoothie. It seems good for the soul. Anyway, if I'm feeling very special I'll chill a glass because warm smoothie is a little disgusting. Then I drink it self-righteously.
So go forth and make smoothies! Or send smoothie supplies and a brand new Vitamix to my house. KTHXBAI
School Daze
So another semester begins, a fairly manageable semester because I made the executive decision to split my very hairy 17 credit semester into two, and start clinicals one semester later. I'm pretty pleased with the choice even though initially I felt like I was being a wuss. However, last semester at 16 credits was grueling to say the least, what with all the training and being a single mom and shit, and I think the boys get the worst of it with a scattered and flighty mom who just wants them to go to bed so she can study.
This semester I have a TA for anatomy lab that was initially fine but yesterday she mispronunciated mitral valve so she's no longer on the list of people who are OK at being TAs. Actually I'm pretty pissed about it, because in addition to that she got confused about the electrical activity of the heart and whether or not it precedes mechanical activity of the heart (yes, duh). I wanted to grab her by the Purkinje fibers and shake her. So expect further rants unless maybe yesterday she was just accidentally dumb.
Another class I'm taking is nutrition. Which so far is consumed with keeping food logs and analyzing them. I've discovered, well, in the sense that I already knew it but now it's official, that I suck at drinking water. Seriously, it's alarming how little I drink. I have come to believe that I am actually about three times this size, but just so dehydrated that each individual cell has dwindled down in a fit of bodily dryness. Kind of like those dinosaurs that you put in a bowl of water that grow slimily larger. Anyway, expect great things as I have committed to drinking more. It's just that water sucks, you know? It's so hard to drink a bunch of it.
This semester I have a TA for anatomy lab that was initially fine but yesterday she mispronunciated mitral valve so she's no longer on the list of people who are OK at being TAs. Actually I'm pretty pissed about it, because in addition to that she got confused about the electrical activity of the heart and whether or not it precedes mechanical activity of the heart (yes, duh). I wanted to grab her by the Purkinje fibers and shake her. So expect further rants unless maybe yesterday she was just accidentally dumb.
Another class I'm taking is nutrition. Which so far is consumed with keeping food logs and analyzing them. I've discovered, well, in the sense that I already knew it but now it's official, that I suck at drinking water. Seriously, it's alarming how little I drink. I have come to believe that I am actually about three times this size, but just so dehydrated that each individual cell has dwindled down in a fit of bodily dryness. Kind of like those dinosaurs that you put in a bowl of water that grow slimily larger. Anyway, expect great things as I have committed to drinking more. It's just that water sucks, you know? It's so hard to drink a bunch of it.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
It's My Party
So I alluded to the girly bonding of the sports camp in a earlier post. One thing that is so great about women is that we can get really into the talking about feelings shit, and also the journey and process and all that. I like that about us. I also hate that about us, because there are times when I just want to get on with things. Usually when I start feeling like that, though, it's time for me to recognize that maybe, just maybe, I need to look within and process something, or even take a few more steps on my journey. And sometimes my journey involves mocking and ridicule, and that's okay.
We had quite a few discussions at camp. Each day had a specific theme, like what jiu jitsu means to us, or how competition affects us, or wellness, or being a girl in a male-dominated sport. And I really, really wanted to feel sarcastic and mocking, because that's how I roll. Instead I found myself bonding with women who have faced the same struggles in jiu jitsu, and cheering them on if they were not quite as far on their journey as I am. And yes, I just used the word journey without too much sardonic inflection. Some of you may be concerned (and that's okay). We spent a lot of time dissecting jiu jitsu as a metaphor for life, which became funny especially if you add interpretive hand motions, but I found myself getting into the conversation because it's all true for us in a way that not many outside the sport can understand. In spite of my best intentions, I dove right in to the bonding and became one with all the girly jiu jitsu-ness. And I think I speak for all of us when I say what a privilege it was to have that outlet, and to feel less alone in what can be quite a lonely, internal-struggley kind of sport that does not necessarily dovetail awesomely with the female psyche all the time. And it was also just incredible to be among a group of women that probably feel pretty much the same way I do most of the time--that they're not really the most usual kind of woman, and sometimes would rather just roll with a bunch of guys than deal with some of the girlier aspects of life, namely confusing social dramas and expectations.
I emailed my home coach pretty consistently about what was going on with camp, and told him in one epistle that there was lots of hugging and crying and feelings. I said I'm sure he could relate because that's probably what goes on in man jiu jitsu seminars, too, right? He seemed pretty stumped by the whole notion, and you could tell it was one of those moments when guys are just positively flummoxed by the girl thing. Which was funny and satisfying, for sure. And when I read his, "Ummmmm....no, not really.....ha ha", I realized that I really love the girl thing, even with all the dumb shit that comes along with it at times, and that surrounding myself with tough badass chicks with hearts of gold is one of the wisest things I've done in a long, long time.
We had quite a few discussions at camp. Each day had a specific theme, like what jiu jitsu means to us, or how competition affects us, or wellness, or being a girl in a male-dominated sport. And I really, really wanted to feel sarcastic and mocking, because that's how I roll. Instead I found myself bonding with women who have faced the same struggles in jiu jitsu, and cheering them on if they were not quite as far on their journey as I am. And yes, I just used the word journey without too much sardonic inflection. Some of you may be concerned (and that's okay). We spent a lot of time dissecting jiu jitsu as a metaphor for life, which became funny especially if you add interpretive hand motions, but I found myself getting into the conversation because it's all true for us in a way that not many outside the sport can understand. In spite of my best intentions, I dove right in to the bonding and became one with all the girly jiu jitsu-ness. And I think I speak for all of us when I say what a privilege it was to have that outlet, and to feel less alone in what can be quite a lonely, internal-struggley kind of sport that does not necessarily dovetail awesomely with the female psyche all the time. And it was also just incredible to be among a group of women that probably feel pretty much the same way I do most of the time--that they're not really the most usual kind of woman, and sometimes would rather just roll with a bunch of guys than deal with some of the girlier aspects of life, namely confusing social dramas and expectations.
I emailed my home coach pretty consistently about what was going on with camp, and told him in one epistle that there was lots of hugging and crying and feelings. I said I'm sure he could relate because that's probably what goes on in man jiu jitsu seminars, too, right? He seemed pretty stumped by the whole notion, and you could tell it was one of those moments when guys are just positively flummoxed by the girl thing. Which was funny and satisfying, for sure. And when I read his, "Ummmmm....no, not really.....ha ha", I realized that I really love the girl thing, even with all the dumb shit that comes along with it at times, and that surrounding myself with tough badass chicks with hearts of gold is one of the wisest things I've done in a long, long time.
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