That's new...

(Gasp...Gasp...Huuuhhhwwwwuuhhh. Is it possible? Is my life flashing before my eyes?)

"Again! You didn't have much power that time. Your punch was harder than the kick."

WHHHHOMP, Tap-Tap

(Just, don't ask if I'm okay. If he asks if I'm okay, it'll be a signal of, something...)

"(Insert my first name) Want to (please don't ask if I'm okay) get some water quick?

(Ugh. He called me by my 1st name. Not, "Mr.P", just ___. In karate, they usually dole out your proper name out of respect. While it isn't disrespectful to not use "Mr." when you aren't a black belt, it does tell me: "You still got a loooong way to go, kiddo" )

"I forgot it. " (The one day I want to do curriculum. Not that it's so easy, but I didn't think I'd be losing pints of H20)

'kay. Switch stances. I'm going to come at you with the pad, and I want you to sidekick, punch, and then throw a jump-spin sidekick."

It's been going on like this for the last hour. Class consisted of just-me. So the instructor made it a point to work technique, not curriculum. After the 1st twenty minutes of drills, every breath I managed to draw came in like I was sucking on a blowdryer. After 45 minutes, my vision starts to get swimmy and my technique goes out the door. Vomiting seems like a pretty good idea. I can't hear very well because (a) the rush of blood in my ears sounds like a low-head dam and (b) the sweat has sort of blocked off my ear canal.

After a while I get into a nice groove. I start taking deep "well" breaths, imagining that I'm filling my body with oxygen all the way down to my feet. (Foomp, tap-tap, ...FOOM)

Good. You didn't really throw a jump spin, but you're improvising.

I stop thinking about the crappy day, the shitty flamer e-mails, the dumb ?'s from co-workers, house worries, bills, time...What I start thinking about trying to staying upright. (Don't faint)

This may seem, again, warshed with machismo, but I know what it really is. (And, as it has been explained to me in the past) Because of who my big brother is, they are going to try to work me just as hard as they would have worked him. And, yeah. I don't want to wuss out.

Okay, hand and footpads off. Line up for the end of class. CHARYO, KunYAY! (We bow)

After class, I try to engage in chit-chat which doesn't come out right- I sound like I've suffered a stroke. Getting dressed is a bit of a chore (You're going to be sore tomorrow, so you might want to ice down a bit. I figured since your getting into fighting shape, and since it's you- I'd work you harder tonight, cool?) My shoulders feel like I just finished doing a 2-hour handstand.

It's the Dowling Ave. exit before my swimmy peripheral vision starts to focus. If I was pulled over, they'd give me a DUI. When I get home, I toss my wet gi into the hamper, and fold a dry one and put it back in my workout bag. Back at it tomorrow.

And I don't feel so bad today. Kiiiiai.