Now that the volunteer work has been completed, I’ve been devoting more time to my training, which at times can be up to 3 hours a day. As a result I’m bigger, and leaner. I can leap over small buildings. I eat nails and Advil for breakfast. My gait has changed. I vacillate between prowling the city streets at the ready position, my massive lats holding my arms out at 90 degree angles from my body, and moving like a hundred year old man with severe arthritis. I’m gingerly making my way down the stairs of a local eatery, the railing a welcome companion, when the bartender calls out behind me, would you like some help, SIR?!?! Young lady, if by help you mean me placing my hands on your ass while I navigate these stairs then yes, I’m confident it will assist in my safe passage.
Increased time in the dojo means more opportunity for injury. I’ve rolled my ankle. My hands are perpetually sore. A couple of weeks ago, I took an elbow to the jaw and was sporting a nice sized goose egg as a result. A palm to the face during a particularly intense training session resulted in a red lesion which stretched down my forehead between my eyes and ended on my nose. The instructor took one look at me and broke out in a broad smile. Dude, I said as I examined the damage in one of the dojo wall mirrors, I’ve got a date tomorrow night, what the f*ck?!?! Trust me, he chuckled, it’s an improvement.