So, I think I am getting the hang of this butt kicking thing. My street cred with my sons has improved dramatically. I am no longer just plain old "mom". I am (finally) MOM! the butt-kicking babe (Okay, not the babe part, but still...).
Despite my need to pay someone to tell me I am beautiful (dude, that sounds like the instructor is a martial arts pimp), I am actually enjoying the classes. I found that I am kind of good at it. SHOCKER!!! However, that doesn't mean that I wasn't going to have a few hang ups along the way. I do have a few issues. For example, I have a brain-fart/seizure-like problem with facing off with big guys. ALL the guys at the Dojo are super nice. The ones who are in the range of 4 foot 10 inches to 5 foot 5 inches don't bother me. It's the ones that are six foot and up that freak me out.
Disclaimer: It's not their fault.
I suppose they can't help it that they cashed in on the genetic lottery and ate their veggies as a kid. The fact that I can only see up their noses from my royal shortness doesn't help either. I try not to judge. So, knowing that, I just HAD to go and get myself hurt.
There we were, playing Korean Chicken Wars. Yeah, I know. I couldn't even claim that I hurt myself doing something really cool, like landing a high kick on some beef cake's metal jaw and knocking him clean out. Nope. We were playing Chicken Wars, which is basically hoping around on one foot while trying to knock other people off balance. I am not a fan of this game.
It was down to me and Mr. Big Dude. I estimate that he was about 6'1-ish and around a buck eighty in weight. Compared to me, he's a freaking giant. Anyway, so... I am hoping around on one foot, thinking to myself that I am one serious pussy. I steer clear of all tall men on purpose. They scare me. Why on earth I am stuck playing a lame game against a guy who could sit on me and make Alyson Jelly, is beyond me. I have been known to do stupider things in my young and unwise 34 years. Regardless, I was going to give it a try.
I am an idiot.
Yeah, I hopped over and bounced off him like a ping pong ball off a brick wall. I landed on the top of my foot and crumbled to the floor flat on my silly little face. Mr. Big Guy didn't do ANYTHING. He just STOOD there and let me take one for the team on my foot. Try explaining that one to the doc. "Hi, yes, I just busted up my foot. How did I do it? Well, it's kind of a funny story... I'll tell you it when my foot stops swelling like a water balloon."
The prognosis was even weird. My ankle is fine. Totally undamaged. I sprained my metatarsals... as in the top of my foot. The doc didn't know what to say. Totally floored, she didn't know if she should cast it, boot it, or slap me for showing up with the lamest injury on the planet. Not only that, I have to use crutches. I have an enormously fat foot that is a lovely array of black, blue and purple. It looks every bit the serious and painful injury. I just wish I had a better story to put with it.
Maybe something like...
So, there I was, cornered by five enormous, slavering ninjas, each one seven feet tall, swathed in black and as menacing as the deepest pit of Hades. It was a miracle I got out of there alive...
I totally need to buy this shirt!