Science and Superstition

I woke up last Wednesday feeling as though I had been hit by a, if not a Mack truck, at least a slow moving Winnebago. Perhaps it may be a little more than my middle-aged mom’s body can take by going to the Monday evening BJJ class in Dripping Springs, staying up until 1 am on the computer, and then showing up again at 8:30 am for the Tuesday morning BJJ class in Dripping Springs.

I had attended Monday evening’s class in hopes of rolling with Lauren the Momminator, and to make up for missing the Saturday morning class. It was during this class that I had the august opportunity to roll with Joao, who in the aftermath explained that I needed to move my body more quickly and more often while sparring, instead of remaining frozen on my back in one spot.

“Mmmmpfh,” I noted understandingly, through a mouthful of gi.

Rolling with Joao was akin to wrestling a vat of non-Newtonian fluid. My original analogy was that it is akin to wrestling an octopus because it feels as though he has grown four extra sets of appendages while you weren’t paying attention. However, octopus tentacles are un-analogously squishy. In order to appreciate my analogy, understand that a non-Newtonian fluid is one that changes its viscosity based on the force that is applied to it. Think of how corn starch dissolved in water behaves, flowing when left on its own and instantly hardening when you attempt to compress it. Now immerse yourself in a vat of dissolved cornstarch and flail about, and the non-Newtonian fluid that is Joao is either flowing over you with multiple tendrils if you don’t move fast enough or hardening instantly to immobilize you as you attempt to muscle against it. After an exhausting struggle in quicksand (another non-Newtonian fluid), I eventually settled into a comfortably supine position as I floated buoyantly in hopes of getting submitted out of my predicament. But I just got the “You’ve Got to Move it Move it,” lecture from Joao.

To inflict injury (to my ego) upon insult (to my bleary-eyed, pre-caffeinated self), Tuesday morning class involved not the expected relaxing review of a sweep from the guard position, but a takedown that appeared to require Atlas-like shrugging abilities. Some essential component of the technique eluded me, and amid the triumphant thwacks of the successful takedowns that echoed around me, my partners sagged and flopped and slithered onto my head, definitely not the optimal landing pad for a takedown.

Thus, Tuesday evening found me in intense internal debate over whether to attend my regular BJJ class in Wimberley. On the one hand, my body ached and my bruises throbbed and I felt listless even after an extra dose of caffeine. On the other hand, if I didn’t stay on schedule and assert my opportunity to leave the house, my family would sense weakness and find devious ways to erode this sacrosanct “Mom’s Night Out.”

My gut intuition, the flabby center of my self-preservation instincts, told me I was concocting a recipe for injury by going. Whenever I have ignored my intuition, I have regretted it. However, that hard-bodied, soft-headed internal cheerleader of mine rallied me with the reminder that my reluctance to go to class wasn’t my intuition talking; it was just exercise inertia, a laziness barrier to overcome. I groaned my way into my gi. Then reached for my belt. Which wasn’t in the closet. Or the drawer. Or the car. Or the refrigerator. I had only just worn the belt that morning in Dripping Springs, so realized with a village idiot’s lightning intellect that I had likely left my belt in the studio. This could only mean one thing. It was a sign.

I told Joao as much when I decided on a coward’s compromise by observing class without wearing my gi, eliminating the potential for injury, and more importantly, exiting the house as per regularly scheduled programming.

“It’s not a sign!” he scoffed good naturedly. “Where’s your gi?”

“It’s in the car, but I’m not participating without my belt,” I insisted.

Fortunately, Joao remembered seeing my belt, rolled up with a hair band around it, but he hadn’t known whose it was.

By calling it a sign, I didn’t mean it in the sense that losing my belt was some heaven-sent message to absolve me from class. The interruption caused by searching for it did make me reconsider whether I was just being lazy or whether I was legitimately tired. Forgetting my belt at Dripping Springs that morning indicated to me that I was fatigued beyond my norm, because usually, the thought of going to BJJ class supercharges me with verve.

I didn’t add that I had actually tied another belt on at home to see if it would work. The pink flowers on that fuzzy terry cloth just didn’t do the outfit justice, though--like wearing a tiara with combat fatigues.