Posts Tagged ‘shaolin’

It’s Almost Friday

March 21, 2014

It’s almost time to dance.

Oh Jesus.

I am ready.

I am ready.

I need to shake it out and shake it hard and let my hair down, and probably put it back up because I will get hot, then let it all go.

I am going to tear it up.

At least that’s what it feels like right now.  Tomorrow, well tomorrow, I could be punked out and my energy may be low and maybe, it’s been known to happen, I won’t be feeling it.

But I will go anyway.

Because I bought tickets.

I was ruminating earlier that sometimes I have to purchase something to go and the guilt of having paid for it will be the motivation.


I paid $18.05 to go dancing (tax, etc.) online.

I better go.

I want to go and that should be enough impetus, but sometimes it is not.

I was talking about not riding my bicycle as much when I get my licence and how that has played out in my head as an anxiety producing thing about not getting enough exercise and the person I was checking in with asked what kind of exercising I like and  I said swimming.

Then she told me about a friend of hers who pays to be in a league and shows up for swim practise.

Swim practise!

Can you imagine at the age of 41?


I am a good swimmer and I do enjoy it and that’s an option, especially with having a vehicle to get me there and back.

Sometimes I am loath to go do something physical because I know afterward I am going to be on my bicycle and I am not up for the commute.

Though, truth be told, I have noticed that I am faster, quicker, and more agile on my bike of late.

I have dropped a pound or two and I can feel the lightness in my body and I can see more muscle tone in my legs and in my upper waist, my lower waist is never going to be what I want it to be, unless I get surgery, which should the money ever happen I might.

I will always, as long as I do what I am doing today, just for today, have loose skin on my body.

And instead of wishing it away I can be profoundly grateful for the visual evidence of what I used to weigh and how hard it was to get through the day.

How stressful it was to hike up Bascom Hill in Madison.

I hike up a great deal of hills in San Francisco, once a week a really steep one, pushing my bicycle up ahead of me–why I will get to climb it tomorrow–up Noe to 19th, and I don’t need to pause for breath three or four times.

I had an old friend tag me in some photographs from days gone by when I used to work at the Angelic Brewing Company, where I hit my top weight, maybe 282 lbs, maybe more.  I didn’t get on a scale for a long time after that and I believe I could have been heavier, but I wasn’t about to find out.

I know that a few years later I had dropped down to 250 lbs.

I know that because I weighed myself at my black belt test.

I was a 250 lb 29-year-old woman getting her black belt in Shaolin.

No wonder I wasn’t fucked with.

Well not much, I remember one of the bartenders, Kurt, joking about how we should turn off all the lights and jump out at me to see how I responded in the dark brewery.

Ah, no thanks, friend, no one needs to die.

Then I managed to get down to 214/215 lbs when I moved here to San Francisco.

Courtesy of a little dietary aid.

Er, I mean, a little bag, or two, of cocaine.

I remember a dear, dear friend asking me if I was using coke to lose weight.

Well, sort of, I admitted, I loved that I wasn’t hungry, but I couldn’t, at that time, admit that I was just plain old addicted to the shit.

Then I stopped.

And wow did the weight come back.

I ate to stuff all those feelings and stuff myself I did.

I bounced back up to 275 lbs, maybe more.

After that I did a lot of restricting and white knuckling, then one day someone suggested I try something else and after a couple of false starts I found a solution that works for me.

And I got right sized.

Which is not to say that I got to the size that I want to be at.


Not at all.

What I got was a certain kind of freedom from obsessing about what that certain size should be.  I got a perspective that allowed me to see that every day, no matter how heavy or light, I was exactly how I should be and that change was going to happen and I might get bigger or smaller depending.

But I would always be right sized.

I believe that’s called humility.

So, when the brain beats me up and says my body is not as attractive as it could be, I get grateful for all the evidence to the contrary, I worked really hard to be the woman I am today and I am gorgeous.

I am not photoshopped, I have wrinkles, I have laugh lines, I have saggy upper arm skin and loose skin on my tummy, but I also have that as evidence I can look at every day and see what an amazing woman I am, how much effort I have put in, in small little steps, to be where I am at.

And where I am at is wearing a sleeveless size medium dress to go dancing in tomorrow night with a pair of leggings and some Converse.

Because although you might not think that my upper arms are sexy.

I do.

And flaunt them I shall while I get my groove on the dance floor.

Because being content in my body is the sexiest statement I can make.

And I am hella sexy.

Just watch me break it off tomorrow.

Because, it’s on.

Don’t Mess With Me

February 25, 2011


I will take you the fuck down.

When I say, “thanks, but I’m not interested,” it does NOT mean follow me from the back of the bus to the front of the bus.

It does NOT mean I really want to suck up some of the rubbing alcohol fumes wafting from you, nor am I interested in smokin’ up some brillo pad with you.

Step off.

I have a black belt in Shaolin.

I have an umbrella with a very sharp point end to it.

I have dealt with two little girls who have been teething all week-long and don’t want to go down for naps.  I will take you the fuck out.  All I want is to go home and have my fucking hot cup of tea.

And, hey, you asshat, on the MUNI, don’t get off and follow me.  Where do you think I’m going?  Number 1, I have $5 in my wallet.  Pay day ain’t till tomorrow.  2. I will kick your ass too.  3.  You aren’t real sly in your hoodie pulled way down low over your face.  Just because I can’t see your eyes, doesn’t mean I don’t notice the minute you followed me off one train car to another and then conveniently got off at my stop.

Back off.

Pause.  Cass just called in the middle of my rant and totally calmed me right down.  That was hysterical timing.

When it comes right down to it, this sort of stuff does happen.  I live in a city.  People get wasted.  I do keep up a pretty big front and most of it is not actually swagger.  I’m tall, I’m strong, I can dead lift a couple of toddlers over my head.

Plus, I really do have a black belt in Shaolin Kempo Karate.  Now, granted, I haven’t trained in ages, but there is something to be said for muscle memory.  And I know I can throw a punch.  When I get manicures, which I have a lech for, I always ask them to cut my nails short.

Many a time a manacurist has been shocked by that, I apparently have very nice nails and they are strong and I could grown them out.  But it’s hard to make a good and proper fist if you have long nails digging into your own palm.

I usually just say, I’m a nanny and I don’t want to accidentally scratch the children.  And there is a certain aesthetic to short nails that i like.  I wear funky colors, today sky blue, tomorrow griege, next week, who knows.  But really, deep down, I like to keep them short so that I can hit you in the fucking face without breaking a nail.  Bitches hurt when they break.

Cass thinks it’s because I’m vulnerable.  Perhaps this is true.  Steph told me when I was back in Wisconsin that I do keep a wall around me.  I want to be approachable.  I want to have people feel like they can connect with me.

I want to be asked out on dates.

Therefor I need some sort of vulnerability to come through.  But I need to find a balance.  I either have no walls or they’re all up in force.

I like to think of myself as a nice person.  I have a ceramic pair of bunnies snuggling together in my bathroom.  I’m soft-hearted and like to laugh.  But I also have a pulp paper back poster of “The Bitch” up too.  I can be a serious brat when pushed.

I just need a little sign over my head that tells you when to approach and not approach.  I haven’t apparently figured out the correct body language yet.

Although, note to drunk man, number three of weird men approaching me tonight.  I wasn’t trying to brush you off, I really didn’t know what stop you needed to get off to go to St. Francis Hospital.  I hear they have a good detox program, “your brother” will like it.

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