Kameron Hurley

Speaking of Kicking It….

I was so proud of myself last week! Hardly sore at all after class! I mean, after two days of not being able to walk after my first MA class, the fact that I could get around without much soreness after my second class felt great!

And then I had that third class, where we literally spent over an hour on kicking drills and then when we moved to doing combinations, because this is Muay Thai, the combinations involved – you guessed it – punching and more kicking.

Oddly enough, I didn’t start to really feel it until last night, when my hips started to hurt and I realized I was having trouble getting up out of chairs. This morning when I got up, I actually physically pulled my left leg out of bed. You know, just to help it a little.

Oh man. The left leg is in the worst shape, of course. Not my calves, mind, just the hips. It was the calves that killed me after the first class (that’s what 10 minutes of jumping jacks will do), but nearly two hours of class, with all those damned kicking drills… it’s the hips that are killing me.

Boy, I love being back at this.

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Kick It (Redux)

Since there was a big thunderstorm about the time I usually head to MA class and Steph was home early, she went ahead and drove me out to class. I changed into MA clothes while I was there, but since we got out late, jumped outside after class without changing back into my street clothes and hopped into the car.

Stephanie looked over at my shirt. “`When I See Something I Kick It’?” she inquired, as if I had chosen this shirt myself.

“We all wear them!” I enthused. “It’s our uniform!”

“Oh you’re kidding me.”

“IT IS GREAT!!!!!”

“So you want me to take a picture for your blog?”

“Eh, maybe when I’m in better shape.”

“It can be a `before’ picture.”

I thought that over. “We’ll see,” I said.

Until then:

Kick it.

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Kick It

Got to class again last night, and signed up “for real” (which involved paying money! That I sort of had!).

Master T. asked about my med ID braclet, and I babbaled on about having type 1 and how I test before and after class, and I keep my emergency sugar right there by my water… I think some part of me was worried I was going to get the “I can’t have you here and be responsible if you pass out,” but you know, I already signed my wavier. Instead, he told me he has a student he does private lessons with who’s also a type 1 diabetic, which is why he asked. Which was kind of neat in a weird way.

I guess it felt good not to be the spokesperson for my weirdness. It’s like being “the feminist,” “the black friend,” “the gay friend,” and etc. You can only represent for one aspect of what makes you you for so long before you want to start waving your arms and saying, “I’m more than this! Yes, I’m this too, but there’s a huge load of things that go together! I don’t want to be The Diabetic!”

Overall, class went a lot, lot, lot better than the first one. I had a partner who was also new, and we spent less time grappling and more time working on stance and punching technique than we did last time. It turns out that I’d so internalized the “keep your hands up” mantra that I’d been holding my arm incorrectly before I punched and losing a huge amount of power.

I need a lot of work. I’m out of shape and, as ever, uncoordinated. Even after all my time at the other gym, picking this stuff up, all this body stuff, it’s not easy for me. It’s been a weakness of mine my whole life, and it’s one of those things I recognize but am really driven to making the best it can be. I may never be a tricky fighter, but I want to be better.

Physcially, I’m a lot more put together after this class than I was after the last one, too. Some of what’s killing me is biking half an hour out there and half an hour back. Riding back is a bitch.

And… I’m wondering how much my inability to move for two solid days after class last week also had something to do with having low sugar all night. If you’re at 45 for six hours after a 3 hour workout, your muscles aren’t exactly getting much of anything to repair themselves.

My dosing strategy worked out really well this time around. Without the dinner insulin, I was able to come home at 150, which is high, but I knew from the week before that I was going to crash at least 50 points overnight, so I refrained from dosing and set my alarm. The low sugar woke me up at 1:30 am, before the alarm, and I tested at 61. I ate some jellybeans and tested four hours later when I got up for the day at 74 (80′s a perfect number).

Not bad.

I’m feeling good enough that I think I’ll be able to make it to class on Tuesday. Bare minimum, I can start with once a week if I have to, but I’m hoping to keep at two classes a week regularly and maybe add another one on occasion when I’m feeling up to it.

Felt good to be out and about.

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On Becoming a Supah Ninjah

Had my first day of MA class at the new school yesterday. Biked half an hour out there, had class for an hour and a half, and biked a half hour back. Tomorrow, I get to do it all over again!

We opened with kicking drills and then did an hour – an *hour* – of grappling. I’m not using to doing a lot of holds & etc. work, and especially not for an *hour,* and we switched up partners a lot, which was good.

One of the tough parts about starting a new school is that everybody’s sort of uncertain about what level of contact their partner is comfortable with, and you have to work it out and get comfortable with it as you go along. Something that made me really happy about my last school was that I partnered with guys a lot; being as tall and heavy as I am, it helps me a lot more to get paired with somebody of equal size.

There was a lot of merry dancing in the beginning as all the women in class had been partnered at least once with all the other women in class, and then the instructor finally prodded everybody into mixed-sex pairs.

Most people were great, but I ended up partnered with a guy who was really nervous – either about partnering with a girl or possibly being beat by a girl or *something,* and when I went to practice the hold, wrapping my hands behind his head, pressing my forearms against his chest and pulling his head forward and down, he exclaimed, “Oh, look, cleavage!”

It was the most bizarrely inappropriate (and inaccurate) thing I think I’ve ever heard in MA class, and my immediate thought was, “Wow, this guy must be, like, 12.” I wasn’t, in fact, showing any cleavage, as I’m small breasted and was wearing a sturdy sports bra under a high scooped neck tank top.

Perhaps he thought this was a way of alleviating the tension he experienced while being partnered with a girl, or perhaps he thought this would somehow make me feel more relaxed. Who knows? He went on to knock the glasses off my face and leave a big claw mark on my forehead when we should have just been doing some friendly hold-and-release drills. The behavior drew the attention of the instructor and several classmates, who were just as curious as I was about what he was trying to prove showing that he had better skillz than the New Chick.

Dunno.

Aside from that, it was a really good experience. We finished up with some time with glove and mitts, which felt sofuckingunbelievablygoodyouhavenoidea. It’s been awhile since I got to hit things.

I had a lot of anxiety about getting back to class. I usually end up being the fattest person in class, and last night was no exception, so I spent the evening doing just as many pushups as everyone else and muddling through things I should probably have asked for more help with. Always trying to prove things…

What I told myself when I first started MA classes back in 2004 (dear lord was it that long ago?) was that, even if I sucked and got everything wrong and was totally weak and uncoordinated and had the body type of a mushroom that I would never again be totally new and unfamilier with how to hit things, with forms and how to do drills and all that. Sure, you have to relearn things and get back into it and recondition and all that, but it’s never totally new. You’re only totally new ONCE. That space in your head for all of this stuff has already been pushed out, and your body can get back into it a lot more easily than it did the first time.

That kept me going, and yeah, it payed off. Because starting a new school is a *lot* easier than it was starting my first school. I feel like less of an idiot (and less of a mushroom), and less uncoordinated, and the whole deal. I don’t feel incompetent, and I already know some of my biggest strengths and weakneses.

When the class formed up for the night, I realized that the shirts that everybody was wearing read:

When
I
See
Something
I
Kick
It.

Yeah.

Something tells me that me and this MA school will get along just fine…

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Yeah, I Need to Get Back to Watching Fights…

I didn’t see the fight, but knowing the result sure makes me miss watching `em. I was surprised at the result, actually, even having seen De La Hoya when he was seriously out of fighting shape.

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Free Hugs

On Thursday night I was walking home from work downtown when I saw a woman on the corner of Washington and State holding up a Free Hugs sign. I’d already seen the original Free Hugs video on YouTube, so I had a little shot of happiness at seeing somebody out in Chicago doing the same and prepared to step hastily by and get to my train.

But as I passed by and saw her hugging people, my step faltered, and I wanted to turn back.

I really wanted a hug.

Here was this person offering some bit of comfort without requesting anything in return, without obligation, without any power-crazy or twisted ulterior motives (that’s the idea, anyway). You don’t see that a lot. You don’t get unconditional comfort or affection all that often.

It made me wonder if this is what the appeal of prostitution is, that you can pay someone to pretend to care about you for an hour. The difference, in this case, of course, is that Free Hugs are given without the need to receive anything in turn. I’m not shaking hands or giving out blow jobs because I can’t pay my rent. It’s done out of pure compassion as opposed to desperation/material gain.

And man, did I want to turn around and go back, to the point where I started crying there in the street, because I couldn’t believe that it was possible for anyone to give me something without desperately needing something back, without taking something away from me, and I was so, so tired; after the year or two I’ve had, I felt like I had nothing to give to anyone, and I couldn’t turn back and receive that hug because I didn’t have anything to give her in return.

So I cried on the way home on the train, and I thought about a world full of free hugs, of compassion without obligation, of being able to give of yourself without fear of having someone try and take it all away.

I would like to live in a world like that, or even a world where I believed that was possible.

One of the best heroines I’ve come across in a really long time is Nausicaa of comic book fame. She’s strong and compassionate and will fight if she needs to, but prefers negotiation and the showing of love and compassion over brute force if possible. I loved the idea that that heroine could exist. The idea of nonviolence and universal love as a means of changing the world is what draws me to stories of people like Ghandi or Jesus or even MLK. I want to believe that love can change the world. I write about bloody, violent, mean people who fight hate with hate; they’re the sort of monsters created by societies that use hate against hate, that keep order through strength and submission.

That is not the world I want to live in, and it’s not the world I want to believe in. I write about it because it fascinates me, and because I hope that someday, if I can understand it, I can find an alternative to it, one that I really believe in. I don’t buy the idea that all we need to do is stand in a circle and put flowers in our hair and dance around saying “I believe in fairies!” (what about health care? Who’s going to make insulin? Who’s going to do the laundry and build the houses and make great medical breakthroughs if we’re all standing around in a circle all day patting each other on the back?), but I know that there’s an alternative to all this blood and anger and hate.

Sometimes I feel that what I do with a lot of my writing is take all of the anger and hate and violence that I’ve absorbed from the world and try and excise it through writing. Otherwise I just turn it inward, and it seethes inside of me and treies to claw itself out, and it chews me to pieces. I’m tired of being full of self-loathing.

I want to be able to let good things in, to appreciate all that good stuff, all those free hugs, without the desperate fear that by letting those things in, by releasing all the fear and anger, I’ll become weak and vulnerable.

The only way to learn how to fly is to let everything go. I know that, but the fear of falling, the fear of falling… that’s the worst fear of all.

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