I just got my red-stripe belt today in taekwondo! Yeah for me!

My 37-year-old body aches from head to toe since I’ve been training all week in preparation. But the test went flawlessly and I did all my forms, kicks and broke two boards with a flying side kick on the first try. For the first time ever, I got straight-A’s on my test. So I’m another step closer to my black belt now - just need to get my next belt, a poom belt (which is a black-red combination belt that makes you a black belt candidate).

If only I could get my son, who is a blue belt, to be more motivated to go to his lessons. I really thought that he’d be motivated if mommy was participating but that doesn’t seem to be working out as planned.

I was leaving my taekwondo class the other night and as I walked along Ventura Blvd. to my parked car, I had to pass a group of young men who were loitering outside a head shop. They reeked of pot and booze and were almost featureless and indistinguishable from one another in their uniform of oversized hoodies and baggy, boxer-revealing jeans and Vans.

I felt that familiar knot of dread in my stomach, knowing I would have to pass through that gauntlet of bored, slightly inebriated guys. You girls know the drill: avoid eye contact, walk briskly and make your face an impassive mask as you listen to the lewd comments and wolf whistles directed your way. As I passed by, they called out to me and to my dismay, started walking behind me. I stiffened and and readjusted my heavy bag full of sparring gear and looked back at them challengingly.

They stopped in their tracks, and for the first time, seemed to take in my karate uniform and the bag full of sparring gear. One of the guys pulled his friends back and exclaimed, “Aw, hell no! ” He shook his head and said, “Uh uh, dude. This chick will seriously f*ck you up.” And just like that, they all staggered back to their post in front of the head shop, shaking their heads and mumbling about crazy chicks who know judo and shit and went intently back to their business of loafing.

I’ve been called a lot of things in my life, but with my petite build and stature, I’ve never been regarded as anyone who could “seriously f*ck you up.” So this is high praise, indeed.

I’m not a soccer mom, even though I probably fit into that demographic. I’m a karate mom. Not just because I ferry my son to and from his karate classes but because I practice karate myself. I’m a red belt in taekwondo, staring down the barrel of that elusive black belt, which is at least another year of hard training away.

The pros of being a karate mom vs. a soccer mom are numerous. I don’t have to watch my son play a competitive team sport and listen to crazy parents behaving badly from the stands. I don’t have to spend every weekend wringing my hands nervously from the sidelines. I don’t have to wear SPF 70 sunblock and invest in a folding beach chair. And most importantly, a karate mom can kick a soccer mom’s Juicy Sweats-clad ass should the need arise. Unfortunately, “need” is not to be confused with the sometimes overwhelming “desire” to do so.

The cons: Since it’s an individual sport vs. a team sport, there is no diffusion of responsibility during tournaments or belt testing. Failure and victory rests entirely on your child’s frail shoulders. I spend way too much time indoors in a studio that smells like stinky feet. And since I do karate myself, my body is a roadmap of pain.

One of my instructors is fond of saying that all practitioners of martial arts have to be a little bit crazy to be willing to put their bodies through so much punishment. I wholeheartedly agree. My classmates and I come from all walks of life and are all ages. The adult classes are filled with a motley crew of suburban moms, real estate agents, lawyers, nannies, teachers and firemen. The one thing we have in common is our high threshold for pain and our inexplicable, sadomasochistic need for it. We are the walking wounded with various injuries du jour wrapped in ace bandages or braces and reeking of Tiger Balm. We kvetch endlessly about our aches and pains, broken bones, sprains, pulled hamstrings, slipped discs, missing teeth, black eyes and bad knees with a relish that rivals the denizens of a rec room at a senior citizen community center. We gossip in hushed tones about so-and-so who broke their ankle breaking a board doing a flying sidekick (something I didn’t want to hear since that’s on my next belt test); the architect who knocked his front teeth out falling on top of the brick he was supposed to break; the musician who snapped his Achilles tendon while sparring; or the pregnant girl who broke her tailbone because the architect who knocked out his front teeth, “accidentally” kicked her so hard during a non-contact drill, it hurt to sit down for months.

Unfortunately, that pregnant girl was me and that broken tailbone injury came back to haunt me later. It healed at a funny angle and blocked my son’s descent in the birth canal after 20 hours of grueling labor. I ended up with an emergency c-section and will be forced to have repeat c-sections for subequent births. Yet, I eventually came back on the mat after a long hiatus. I immediately cracked the top of my foot and then limped for three months. But as soon as I was able, I wrapped my foot in a brace and was back on the mat. I guess I’m a glutton for punishment. So why do I keep doing this to myself?

I’m not sure I have the answer. As a workout, it’s unparalleled total body conditioning. I can do pushups on my knuckles (not the cheater ones on the knees) like all the guys. I can do splits in every direction and my balance is superb. Mentally, I never get bored unlike other workouts I’ve tried. There’s so much to learn, remember and concentrate on that it’s the only exercise that quiets and engages my restless, nervous mind. When I’m doing taekwondo, I can only think about taekwondo. Even yoga was never as relaxing because I found myself thinking about all the things I had to do after class. I’m addicted to the adrenaline and endorphine rush that comes from mastering a jumping spin hook kick or any other crazy kick that seemed impossible at first.

But it seems that every belt advancement comes at the cost of an injury and as I turn 37 next month, I’m getting to the age where the warranty on this body of mine is due to run out. Yes, I’m extremely fit for my age but I know that it’s inevitable that I’ll be sidelined by something or another before I get my black belt. It’s not a matter of “if” but “when.” Until then, I’m going to stock up on ace bandages and Tiger Balm.

Now that I’m a mom, I’ve become a freak about food sanitation and personal hygiene - especially hand washing. Children are pint-sized Typhoid Marys and hand washing is front line defense against most germs. Unfortunately, my purse hygiene would constitute a Code Red by the health department. I don’t carry a dead ferret in my purse, unlike the woman in my previous post, but I think the puddle of fermented apple juice, pirate booty, graham crackers and Altoids and God-knows-what-else at the bottom would cause even the most street-hardened purse snatcher on crack to recoil in horror.

Yesterday, I was taking a taekwondo class and my Goody hairband (as usual) exploded on the mat and zinged across the class, nearly taking out a classmate’s eye. I excused myself and ducked out to find a spare in my purse. I plunged my hand into something sticky and gritty at the bottom of my purse and sighed. This was becoming an all too familiar scenario. I finally found another hairband, but it was absolutely encrusted with graham cracker crumbs which were sodden with Purell (which had spilled in my purse). I reasoned that the Purell probably killed whatever nasty bacteria would be lurking on the hairband and brushed it off the best I could and tied my hair up. But I vowed to finally clean out my purse when I got home.

In retrospect, I should’ve donned latex gloves, but I guess I was unprepared for how bad it was going to be. And it was pretty bad. Here’s an inventory of the crap I found in my purse and I was alarmed at how 90% of the contents were expired food items.

4 boxes of Sunmaid raisins - some empty, some half full. But all of them petrified.

1 empty Altoid tin.

7 Dentyne wrappers. 3 pieces of melted gum and 2 pieces of chewed gum.

Toilet seat covers purloined from Bloomingdale’s women’s room. (See previous blog entry)

2 dried out ballpoint pens.

1 tampon, unwrapped and expanded from absorbing all spilled liquid.

2 broken crayons

2 bottles of Arrowhead water, half empty.

pacifier, covered with pirate booty dust.

3 Thomas the Tank Engine trains - Percy, Henry and Terence (I can’t believe I know their names).

1 box of dried out baby wipes.

a half dozen empty sandwich bags.

1 dead flower. (no idea what that’s about)

Sand.

A spork and pair of chopsticks.

A baby croc and sneaker. Both Left.

Snickers candy wrappers and assorted melted Halloween candy.

And creating a foundation at the bottom were a fossilized collection of cheerios, goldfish, pirate booty, pretzels, melted string cheese packets and other unidentifiable food items. I guess that explains the empty sandwich bags.

If I had a personal theme song, it would be the one from Sanford and Son. I totally disgust myself.

I remember a news story about how shockingly germy the outside of most women’s purses were when swabbed and tested in a laboratory. There was e.coli and even hepatitis detected on the purses.

LINK

Yet, I wonder if there’s ever been a study done on the biohazard lurking on the INSIDE of an average mom’s purse. I’d be afraid to take a culture of the petrie dish that I call a purse. There could possibly be new strains of penicillin or some new life form emerging from the primordial soup of pirate booty and Purell. But more realistically, handling the contents of my purse will probably just give you a very bad rash.
The most depressing epiphany was the realization that there wasn’t a single useful thing inside aside from my wallet and makeup bag and cell phone. I was creating a premature dowager’s hump on my back, carrying a heavy, overstuffed receptacle of toddler detritus. Now that my purse has been somewhat decontaminated, I feel a sense of relief. If any of my intrepid readers have been inspired enough by my post to tackle the contents of their own purse, please post your most shocking and disgusting discoveries here. I’d love to feel less alone in my handbag squalor.