I realized that Kim’s post went onto my old blog. So I am re-posting it today here.
My name is Kim. Laura asked me to post about sparring…
It’s been about five minutes. The plastic protecting my teeth feels like a mouth full of sand, but there’s no sneaking over to my water bottle. There are vinyl-clad pads protecting the rest of my body, except for a sliver of wrist that’s a favorite of my opponents’ kicks (again with the wrist? are you kidding me?). I am gasping and sweating through pores I never new existed. My opponent has barely started gently perspiring and is soundly beating me. I should be thinking of combinations–3, 4, 2, pull, step, front to back. Find an opening. Instead, I can think one thing.
I suck at this.
My classmates are very kind, suggesting moves and telling me they’re going to go easy on me (awesome, says my ego). I keep thinking that at green belt level, I should be able to hold my own. But this is fast, this sparring thing, and my opponents seem to have more arms and legs, and definitely more coordination, than I. They can do that back to front thing without toppling over, and still nail me right in my chest guard–the one my disobedient arms are supposed to be protecting instead of flailing around like that.
Two years ago, wrapping myself in plastic and voluntarily letting other people kick the snot out of me wasn’t even remotely on my radar. I signed up for Taekwondo for my son, who wanted to try it but resisted joining the class alone. So I joined too, figuring a session or two would give him enough confidence to go it alone and I could drop out and hang out with the gaggle of moms on the steps, checking email and reading books while their kids learned a bit.
Here we are. He is moving like lightning, having drastically improved in his motor skills and confidence. My daughter joined class a few weeks ago, after finally making the tough decision between TKD and dance, and is learning her fist kicks and fundamental moves. I, on the other hand, am strangely addicted to the class, but lumber around like the 40-something minivan driving desk jockey I am, praying to whatever powers exist that somebody will call the damn time already so I can breathe for a minute. Take a shower. Pour a glass of wine and burrow on the couch where I belong already.
I’m trying to learn. The tips my classmates and my teachers give me make a lot of sense. Given a few minutes of practice, I can do most of the moves reasonably well (except for that toppling-over turny thing…and that reverse back kick that taunts me) during class. But the pads go on and the kicks and punches come at warp speed, and try as I might–and I really do try–I suck at this.
Thank you if you’ve tried to help me with tips and the going-easy thing. Apologies to those who want a real fight on Thursday nights and wind up facing me on the mats. I’m trying–I promise. I’ll get it eventually. Maybe…
