BaBoom BaBoom BaBoom/DaDoing DaDoing DaDoing Part 1

It's been a pretty crappy fall. I won't go into why. Suffice it to say that I got caught in the great psychic clean out for upcoming 2012 (those of you woo woo types who know (the real, not media) 2012 will know what I'm talking about). And good thing I went to Belize earlier this year to learn myself what all the fuss over 2012 is. (Good thing I went to Belize for other reasons too.)

Anyway, one of the results of this has been less time hotarmacizing, as D calls it. Who has the energy? It's enough just to pry my eyes open in the mornings and realize, "Oh, I'm still here."

Damn right, and that "still here" may be the only thing worth holding onto. Though my arm muscles may deflate faster than Shihan's ego (which will never deflate, actually), at least I got them muscles. Or something.

D made me laugh the other day. I hadn't laughed in so long the sound startled me, like it was coming from somebody else. D was telling me about her theory of Ba-Boom Ba-Boom Ba-Boom and Da-Doing Da-Doing Da-Doing (rhymes with "boing").

You see, we inexplicably got on the topic of large breasted women working it in the dojo and naked men trotting around on a nude beach. Get the idea? She tells me she was discussing this after class one Friday with Sensei Mo. I would have loved to have seen conservative Jewish Mo's face as D dramatized this theory.

Anyway, I guess the moral is: Let nothing stand in the way of animating your spirit, whether through laughter or exercise, whether you are a deflated P'ster, a Mayan athlete about to be sacrificed, a large breasted woman landing hard after a flying spin kick, or a naked guy training for a marathon on Sandy Hook's Gunnison (gotta love that name) Beach.

Or something like that.

Shihan digs chicks including...

Poor Hot Arms missed a lot of classes this fall. Her old back injury resurfaced but as soon as she had medical clearance, there was Hot Arms punching and crunching, back brace and all.

This post is not about old Hot Arms but is instead about my friend, one p'ster.

This past September in yet another skirmish in my decades old war against fat, I embarked on a "boot camp" at the dojo which meant that I paid $99 for the privilege of taking 10 classes (which I could do anyway) and getting 3 one-on-one sessions with Shihan or Mrs Shihan. This was meant to jump start my new diet. After the boot-camp week, I could get a promotion. So, I scheduled 3 sessions of mitt work with Shihan. (He holds mitts; I hit or kick them and he critiques my technique. Ok.)

In my experience, one of men's favorite topics to talk about with me is women. Happens all the time. Dudes dig talking about chicks with a girl who's into chicks. Ugh!

On my second one-on-on with Shihan, he observed that p'ster and I were becoming close. Here I went into an internal panic pondering what he could be implying. I am as married as I am legally allowed and p'ster was in a relationship. And I was raised Catholic and didn't he know the idea of cheating even if I would ever cheat (not that I would; it would wreck my psyche forever!) sends me into a vortex of guilt at the mere thought, a la Jimmy Carter's lust-in-the heart type sinning. I understood where the man, Jimmy Carter that is, was coming from!

(At the first one-on-one session, Shihan and I just talked about chicks.)

After his not-so astute observation about p'ster and me, Shihan asked me if I thought p'ster was pretty. Talk about rock and hard places! Well, she is. Pretty, that p'ster. But I was not sure where this line of inquiry was going. After a very deliberate pregnant pause, I answered simply, "Yes."

"So do I," he rapidly admitted.

Then, he began to wax rhapsodic and poetic and all that dreck about p'ster. She has finesse. She is graceful. She is fast. She has is thoughtful. She is refined. She is European. (No, she's not! Her parents were!) And I, in juxtaposition, am a "bull in a china shop." Ow! Good thing my ego isn't fragile.

As I punched the mitts and listened to this nonsense, I realized poor p'ster had been catapaulted into the "select" few favored by Shihan. P'ster was now in Hot Arms' vicinity in his realm.

Eventually, the one-on-one with Shihan plus p'ster ended. He mentioned her again at the next-on-one session; but not so blatantly. He merely managed to work a mention of her into our conversations every 5 minutes rather than the entire time.

When I told p'ster about Shihan's lust, p'ster was blown away in disbelief. She had been laughing about his lust for Hot Arms too. Now, here was she now a lustful focal point herself.

This call was borne out when p'ster had to be away from the dojo for over a week. Upon her return, Shihan went out of his way to note that he missed her and that she was very welcome back into the fold. Prodigal daughter or no.

Other times, he asks after her and solicits her feelings after an absence. Oddly amusing but not to p'ster or me. Kinda creepy. I expect that Shihan's attention to her is burdensome and annoying to p'ster. So, poor girl. I am not envious. I am glad to be the "bull in the china shop" or the fat girl in the dojo. It's much easier.

Oh, and p'ster revealed that Shihan is such a guy. Ie: a "walking penis." Gotta love the girl

Hot Arms at the Expense of a Haggard Face: A Life Lesson

Maybe it is the real giveaway that you're now over 40. Maybe it's genetics kicking in--Grandma's naso-labial folds as deep as the plowed furrows on her farm, or Uncle Joe's paunchy chimpmunk cheeks, as red as the homemade wine he loved. Maybe it's divine retribution for all those hearts you shamelessly broke when you were cute and your features could cut air. (The fact that I was usually the one heartbroken is beside the point).

Maybe, just maybe, it's the fitness side-effect no one ever talks about: intense exercise makes your body look good but your face look like crap.

Since your face can't exactly do pull-ups or push-ups or punch the bag (and oye vey, in sparring it's often the thing getting punched!), it just sits there, like the kid who could never take gym class and just watched from the bleachers. Or, maybe more accurately, like the less developed of siamese (excuse me, co-joined) siblings, the one who just flaps there while the other one, bigger and stronger, has all the fun.

The other day, looking through my Gaiam catalogue, in all its wholesome organic capitalistic goodness, I saw a gadget whose ad claims it actually exercises your face. It lists for about as much as my grad school budget weekly grocery bill.

I'm considering it.

Maybe I should bring it to the dojo in place of my mouth guard.

Of course, after a week without food but continued kickboxing and hot-arming, I may not have much face left to work with.

But that's better than the flaps, right?

I've been in a funk about this face thing for a while. If it's true that you wear your life on your face, then by the looks of of mine you'd think my life is ready for the Salvation Army bin. Then last night I had an interesting experience.

I was in the drug store across from the dojo to buy bottle of water before class. As I stood in line in my uniform, the middle-aged guy next to me, resplendent in low-slung wife-beater, hairy chest, beer gut, and shorts one generation too tight, asked me, "Hey, how do I get an outfit like that and look tough?" He was dead serious. I was almost flattered. No one has ever called me macho before. I kept my composure, however. With a Chuck Norris gleam in my eye and a cock to my head, I responded, "Go to the karate school." Then I added, wondering whose voice was coming out of my mouth, "Besides, it's not the outfit. It's the attitude."

As it turns out, there were also two baby dykes in the line in front of me. They kept stealing glances at me. I acted aloof (like I would have 20 years ago had I actually broken hearts just by being). The guy who asked for macho advice must have inspired their confidence, cause they were still outside when I left the store. The butchier of the two stopped me and asked shyly, "Are you a teacher in the karate school?" When I said no, I was a student, she persisted, as if she wanted some, I don't know, confirmation or something. Her friend smiled at me, eyelids, I kid you not, lowered. I encouraged them to check out the school for themselves, said goodnight and strode off like Shane in a gi.

Sure, almost two years in the dojo has made my body toned, sunken my cheeks, and made me look hungry (cause I am). It's also given me something else.

Now I've just got to just face it.

Shihan flirts with Hot Arms

Really. She flirts back too. At my belt recent promotion ,which had to be done as a make-up, I had to wait so Shihan could flirt and flirt. I noted same to to Sensei M. who said sarcastically,"So, we're not the only ones who've noticed."

Shihan's advise to Hot Arms (who's having marital problems): "Go to a hotel. Drink a lot. Negotiate your issues. Sign a contract. Drink more wine. Fuck all night. Wake up and read the contract you signed the night before."

He vouchsafes its veracity and effectiveness. Hot Arms's face was read. He gave me the same advise when I was on a rant about my partner being gone at work for over 12 hours. He doesn't flirt with me. There is a a certain sagacity in his advise. But his hand was laid admiringly and tenderly on Hot Arms' ever-hotter arms when he dispensed this advise to Hot Arms. He matter-0f-factly stated it to me. But who can blame him? She is hot.

Since we the above diatribe was mentioned when a bunch of us from the dojo were discussing the physical types to which we were attracted, I did say that if I and Hot Arms were single, and if she were gay and were to go for me, she would not be my type: she's long haired and longish nailed. Too girly. I like girls with a bit of a tomboy about them!

Hot Arms Give Out in the Portuguese Pastries Onslaught

Ok, so I haven't posted for a while, as D, my partner in this Hot Arming blog, points out. Truth is, I am just not that prolific, for many reasons, but mostly because of my contrarian nature: I instinctively recoil in the presence of all the written diarrhea that blogging, tweeting, and whatever else marketers are bound to call the "connectivity" that has encouraged it...but maybe more on that later...

I haven't posted because there's been little to report since my last post, other than Hot Arms recently enthusing about the merits of the "kickboxing boot camp" she, and many others, finished a couple of weeks back--for an extra $100. Although many went and are continuing to go this route, as long as the dojo is offering it, I still think it smacks of buying a black belt faster. But who knows, I might change my mind. The other notable Hot Arms moment was witnessing her doing pull-ups, putting my feeble quivering attempts (I think I rose a centimeter) to shame. So, the Hot Arms program gave me nice tone, but hasn't really addressed upper body strength, which most women are woefully lacking in. Alas... That occasion was only buoyed by the spectacle of watching Hot Arms and her class partner, who I'll call Y, Hot Ams' tall, blonde Slavic doppelganger, pulling up in tandem, sweat sheening their hot arms and only slightly dampening their long, pony-tailed hair. D and I stood watching, separately stupified, until D glanced at me and remarked, "Now there's a sight!"

Indeed.

Thus, it was with this memory and my toned arms that I left the dojo for a two week trip to the land of my ancestors: Portugal. My girlfriend, who had never been there and has been pestering me to go since we got together, accompanied me.

Everyone remarked on how thin I looked, which, ironically, like other women conscious of their (over)weight, I cringed every time I heard. My family over there, people in general it seems (apart from the soccer gods), are not exactly what you'd call athletic. Certainly, they are not obese by American standards (although, self-admittedly, they're getting there), but they do love their three squares, liberally punctuated with coffees and pastries.

So did I.

Can pastries stimulate that primitive part of your brain that says, "Your hot arms melting into flab is a good thing. You'll need it to survive"? Apparently so, because I never did grow nauseated at the sight of one more "pastel de nata" (traditional custard pastry) or a galao (steamed milk and coffee) or even straight up, liberally sugared cafe. Not to mention the three squares: seafood, seafood, and more seafood, and even a few vegetarian lapses into hamburgaos (big ole hamburgers--but only because the cows are locally reared, grass fed, and therefore, as my friend Catarina noted after we passionately discussed not eating meat one night and then the next day at lunch gave into our cravings, "happy cows."). (It was to be one of my several lapses as it turns out).

What did I have to show for all this when I returned to the dojo? Well, let's just say now I can see the genetic connection to my family...in the arms.

Hot Arms and her kid and meds

Hot Arms and I partner last week in Kickboxing last week. After class, she and I get to talking about our very bright, quirky sons. She asks how the meeting with my son's psychiatrist went and I tell her he has ADHD and we put him on meds for school but are giving him a break on weekends and over the summer. But the drug is miraculous in focusing my son for school and homework. She says her kid is having transition and focus issues and since he is entering first grade, he needs to transition and to focus better. I rave about the effect the drug has on our kid as confirmed by kid and his teacher.

Hot Arms is a pulmonologist. She works whenever her husband does not. She avoids him and she worries about her son. Like I worry about mine. She takes medications for her medical needs like I do for mine. Reluctantly, I give or rather, my partner dispenses, what is basically speed for our 6 year old son. Well, it fires up the correct, in scholastic terms, parts of his brain. I give her the name of our psychiatrist and wish her well. I tell her if something is needed, it should not be denied.

Women warriors

I sparred Hot Arms today. She's fast, she's good but she's a newbie. And an uber-perfectionist. She was beating herself up for not being better than she is. This was her third time sparring. She is intense.

She does look fetchingly sexy when she sweats, spars, removes her headgear. She could have anyone she wants. I guess she's not ready yet for extra-marital activities (of course not with me. I'm married and besides, she seems to have a thing for p'ster). I came home and did 50 chair dips. She inspires.

On another issue: p'ster kicked and pummeled me mightily after I kicked her in the nose. We were sparring and it was implicitly consensual. "A wake up call", p'ster said with ice cold fury. Her dark eyes dilated black. Her face blazed amazon ferocity. She was primal anger pounding my face and my head and my ribs. She mesmerized me and I froze. I understood fundamentally, she craved vengeance and I was compelled to acquiesce.

Shortly after this, the boy sparrers separated us. It's always good to work with different people and frequently, necessary.

After class, p'ster confessed she was very pissed off. She has a lot fire of deep within. An epiphany for her. Calling upon it as needed and controlling it is challenging; but oh, the strength and power she will wield! Go p'ster. Uzz!

Bridging from Hot Arms

Hot Arms lusts after p'ster or p'ster's sparring ability. Poor Hot Arms. She really needs to get divorced and have passionate, meaningless sex with someone. Any available red-blooded person would want to assist her!

She still inspires me but I've really slacked because of many reasons. But I am getting private boxing lessons from Coach M., who I've been told was on the US Olympic boxing team. I've not asked Coach M. about this but the guy knows his stuff. I love it!

Still I will need to return to hotarmacising. I want to do a bridge position on my hands instead of my head. For that, I will need stronger triceps. Ah, Hot Arms. Able to do several pull-ups. Bridge position on her hands is a non-issue. But I envy her ability. Chair dips here I come.

It's All Relative

After a strange day, an "Einstein" day in which time seemed relative (because it IS), I dragged myself to the 8:15 kickboxing class. The mild spring dusk tempted me to stay on my deck with a glass of wine, but next thing I knew, I was in my gloves and questionably smelling shin guards partnered with--Hot Arms. I had hoped D. would appear so that I could see her before my trip to Belize on Thursday, but when HA wandered in, it cheered me. What a strange feeling about someone I, at best, try to say little to because she makes me feel like an...underachiever.

Yet when partnering time came, after slide kick drills, we simulatneously looked at each other and said "Partner?"

We practiced blocking kicks with our shins. Our legs and thighs clicked like we were pieces on some kind of mechanized board game. Click! Click! Click! We looked intently at our legs, anticipating every move, which, of course, is the opposite of what we're supposed to be training for. Then sensei said, "Don't look at your legs! That's not how it's gonna happen in a situation. Look in each other's eyes."

The best I could manage was looking at HA's gloves. I noticed she too could not look me straight in the eyes. I accidentally jammed her toes a few times on blocks. In pain, she did look me in the eyes.

Earlier in the day, on a sun flooded street in downtown Scotch Plains, the epitome of "safe" suburbs, two adolescent boys roared by in a generic gray car. The one in the passenger side, his window rolled down, yelled, "Queer!" when he saw me minding my own business walking down Park Ave. The car roared around a corner and quickly disappeared. He didn't look me in the eyes either.

A Milestone for P'ster on the 3rd Week of the Hot Arms Program

Tonight my partner tried to pin me--and no, not as in a corsage but a wrestling move, and no, not my partner in sparring but romance (don't ask--it was my challenge in a light-hearted love moment)--and couldn't!

Thing is, I could feel myself stronger, unpinnable, stronger even than I was last summer when I was kickboxing four times a week and playing soccer twice a week. Now, I'm only averaging a KB class two, maybe three times a week and playing soccer sporadically. So what happened? The only difference now is...hot arms.

Oh, and I found out that HA's birthday is May 1. Mine is May 7 (that's why I didn't make an entry last week, was celebrating). That makes us Tauruses. In other words, strong like bull...

Hot Arms: Week 3

Hot Arms, p'ster, M and I sparred on Friday in a round-robin fashion. She's quick, she's good. She says I'm fierce. Because of her I can do 16 or 17 boy push-ups in a row. I'm not sure how hot my own arms are becoming but even hotarmacizing inconsistently has improved my strength.

After we all sparred, we went to lunch. Hot Arms had a far-away look on her face. Her husband's off to India and she's happy. She keeps her self to herself. Very guarded and closed, that one. Her beautifully tone triceps belie the ache emanating from her eyes.

Off the wagon, onto Hot Arms not feeling hot on her birthday

Fell off the hotarmaczing wagon. Triceps shrinking. Batwings building. Not good.

P and I had just finished sparring last week when we started chatting with Hot Arms and our friend M. This Friday, at P's and my urging, Hot Arms and M are going to spar and then we are all going to go out for brunch to celebrate Gold Belts, sparring and birthdays - P's and Hot Arms'.

Hot Arms' husband is off to India and she's happy he's gone. She is not into her marriage at all.

It was her birthday and us she was depressed about her new age (her late 30's, I think). Hot Arms was impressed that B, a woman with slightly-less-than-Hot-Arms-hot arms but nevertheless impressively hot arms, had just turned 51. Yes, B looks great. So then, I informed Hot Arms she looked great too, what with her well-toned arms and all. (I note that P totally avoided eye contact with me during this repartee with Hot Arms). Hot Arms said she did not think she looked hot; she felt very un-hot.

I remarked that her physique was appealing. I told her any man would find her attractive. She smiled her pretty, perfect smile and tossed her pretty, sweat-damp hair. She poo-pooed me but was pleased. M and P agreed. Yes, any man at all. She didn't need her husband. Oooh. She giggled giddily. But then the coup-de-grace. Naughtily, I informed Hot Arms if she decided to cross the fence and try girls, she would do even better. Hot Arms again stroked her hair, replying as she hastily exited, "That's the nicest thing anyone has said to me all day. Thanks!" O poor girl.

So, having reminded Hot Arms of her hotness, I must again begin to reclaim mine. (Not that I am or ever was hot. I've always relied more on being interesting and funny rather than cute much less hot. At least my sweetie thinks I'm cute!) It cannot hurt to try to be hot, if only for health reasons and to avoid batwings. And for my sweetie.

A Hot Day Starts the Second Week of Hot Arms: P'ster

Well, my first week's tally on the hot arms routine is not so hot: I stuck to the program (15 push ups a.m. & p.m.; 2 sets of 10 triceps dips and 2 sets of 10 biceps & delts curls with 8 lb. hand weights) two out of the seven days. Nice going, p'ster. But I shouldn't be too hard on myself cause that's what turns people off their programs.

I didn't make the exercise deficit up in kickboxing either, attending only one class on Thursday evening. The plus though was that it was an advanced session and, D. not be able to be there, I ended up sparring with a red belt-level teenage boy. There are certainly advantages in sparring with partners of various abilities, ages and genders. This kid, with his budding testosterone-fueled strength could have pummeled me, but I think he might have been a little intimidated. In any case, I got in a few shots that surprised him, and one of the senseis watched us and gave us good tips. all in all, a good, sweaty workout. so sweaty, in fact, that it caught the attention of Hot Arms, who came for the second class. We ended up in the coat room at the same time, she coming in, me getting ready to go. i took off my headgear with the bravado of like a gladiator and she said, with that faraway gleam in her eye that makes her look like she's either on meds or needing to be or just ADD (well, that could go back to the meds things): "you look like you just sparred!" yes i did. "and when are you going to? you have all your gear right?" "yeah," she hemmed, "but..." i can't remember what the "but" was, blinded as i had become by the revealing of her dazzling hot arms. i muttered something inane and left.

this weeks goals remain much the same as last weeks except for: 1) try to actually stick to the program daily; 2) up to push ups to 16; and 3) try to make it to at least 3 kb classes.

so far, today, i've done my dips/curls and the first set of 16 pu's.

it's so hard being a modern day gladiator.

Hotarmacising to avoid fat upper arms (day 3: Suburban Dyke)

My partner has already labeled my new routine as "Hot Arm Exercise" which I've shortened to "hotarmacise" and which I've practiced today as yesterday, despite my previous assertion I would do something else today. However, I omitted the weight bar because I don't feel like going to the basement and I did lat pull-downs with the 5 lbs weights.

I am not sure how hot-as-in-sexy this all has made me over the past three days. I've certainly gotten hot-as-in-sweaty but then I sweat easily. I see no difference in my arms over three days, not that I expected to see any, but my arms feel bulkier. I really don't want bulky, bulging arms, just nice lean muscle toned ones.

Actually, I will be really happy if I never get the bat wings so many old ladies get. I'm not there yet but have cousin whose wife's mother had arm wings that hung down what seemed like a foot and really flapped about. The poor thing's arms we so fat and floppy she could not wear anything but short sleeves because nothing fit over those huge wings. It was frightening. I was traumatized. Hence, while hot-as-in-sexy will be nice (and who would not love to be hot), I am really hoping to avoid huge free-flying upper arms. (Those shown here are not mine!)

Hot Arms and the Hot Arms progran, Days 1 and 2 of week 1: Suburban Dyke

Today, I went to a morning kickboxing class. Hot Arms appeared, tanked on coffee and sucking her asthma inhaler, declaring she was not yet awake. I asked her about her bruises. Initially, she looked confused but then with a slight grin, she said, "Oh those. I forgot. Ok, I guess." I think she likes P better than me.

Because it was a basic class (as opposed to intermediate / advanced) and because it was a small class, we all had a kickboxing bag to ourselves. Hot Arms pounded hers, hard, and harder, and harder still. Biting lips, licking lips, hair flailing all about. Perfect in her moves. But angry, intensely angry.

Through all the drills, she excelled but not enough to alleviate what's inside her. Poor Hot Arms. Really.

So as for my routine, yesterday:

P'ster is in better shape and at least 50 lbs lighter as well as 6 years younger than me. (Just an explanation, not an excuse.) So for day one (yesterday): 15 boy push-ups at 6:45 am and at 11 pm. 15 sit-ups, both times.

Today: 15 push-ups and 15 sit-ups at 6am and eventually, at 11 pm, before I go to bed. In between: 2 sets of 15 triceps chair dips, 2 sets of more triceps stuff (behind the head and standing against a chair isolating each side with 5 lb weights), some of the air-port traffic waving stuff (20), bicep curls (20 each arm), some lat pull up/downs with 5 lb weights as well as a 10 lb bar and some more stuff with the bar. You get the idea. Working on my future hot arms.

I am a big girl, 185 lbs. Some muscle. Much fat (and stamina for my size) but a determination to succeed, So, I need to work on abs and legs which I will do on "off" days from arm-hotness-building exercises. All "experts" say to take a day off between muscle building and I will comply. However, I will do 15 sit-ups and boy push-ups daily for the week and up the antee next week.

First Day of the First Week on the Hot Arms Program: P'ster

So I met my first day's goal: 15 boy push ups in the morning (which for me is around 2:00 in the afternoon) and 15 before bed (which I'm posting from now). Check.

In between I did two sets of 10 of each of the following: triceps pull-ups, first set on the edge of a chair, next set on the edge of the bed (because it is next to a full-length mirror on the door and I wanted to watch my hotness unfurl); biceps curls with 8 lb. hand weights; and deltoid lifts, or whatever they're called (you know, that exercise that looks like you're waving a plane in for landing).

This will be my routine for the next week, then I will take it up a notch (i.e., maybe put up more mirrors).

All in all, it's a satisfying start.

On to Hot Arms

Hot Arms (photo is not her) has been at our dojo for over a year. She started about the same time P did, two months after me. She DOES have HOT ARMS. Well muscled and toned. She can do pull-ups, about which she berates herself for not being able to do more. She used to deign to do partner work with me but now she chooses those with higher belts. Not that I blame her. She is good. She's graceful and strong. Very athletic with all American good looks. She's also smart.

Hot Arms would seemingly "have it all" including her arms and (as P noted) her calves. Except she really dislikes her husband who apparently is a lazy accountant who doesn't do much around the house. She has two cute kids: a 6 year old boy and a 3 year old girl. She says she would leave her husband but for the kids. Her hard, heavy, fearsome bag-pounding, over two successive classes, only slightly alleviates her tension. And boy, is she tense. But not to worry: Shihan often gives a nice massage after class. Shihan does not offer this special attention to P and me!

P very accurately and hysterically described our inspirational moment for this blog: Hot Arms' arm and calf flexing at the silly gals gossiping about her. It was very funny that she was flirting with the two queer women in class. Clearly flirting. With her poor boo-boo from the big bad carpet that assaulted her in the store and her not-visible-to-the-naked-eye bruise on her Grecian-sculptured bicep, reportedly suffered while kickboxing (hmmmm).

That night, I went home and told my partner who thought it was not right that Hot Arms had flirted with P and me. Right before she kissed me good night, my partner angrily muttered, "What's wrong with her? You're both taken!!!" It was very flattering that my partner was jealous. And sweet. But the mere mention of Hot Arms makes my partner seethe.

The morning after the flex-tease, P and I took another class, giggled about Hot Arms and Shihan's over-attention to her, as well as our partners' reaction. Suddenly, speaking of those devilishly beguiling arms, she hovered in the doorway. Shihan "uzed" her in. While she bowed, and P and I smirked, Shihan's head whiplashed between us and Hot Arms. He wanted to look at her but he wanted to know why P and I were amused. I forget what we said but he finally re-focused.

Of course, Hot Arms punched and pounded and Shihan panted. But, P and I are inspired. We too want to have hot arms. But, we are sympathetic to Hot Arms who is an unknowing icon and who is decent, caring woman with a troubled life.

Taking Back Our Own Hotness

Did she ever inspire us! She came up to us before class in our kickboxing dojo a few weeks ago. I was tempted to ask if her ears were burning because D and I had been discussing (tittering like schoolgirls) HER. There must be something to this subliminal messaging thing--and it doesn't just apply to advertising--cause she made a beeline right for us and, next thing we knew, she was flexing her arms in her sleeveless t-shirt and pulling up her uniform pants to show us (boo hoo) a bruise she got from shopping, of all things. No, not from a misplaced hook kick to the heavy bag or a sparring partner's shin, but from an item in a store aisle that had fallen on her well-toned calf and stamped it with a bruise that looked like the ace of spades. Now, I've heard of an ace up the sleeve but never a pant leg. Hmm.

Turns out that little scene was OUR ace. I mean, why should hotness apply only to someone with standard all-American good looks and credentials? That is, long flowing hair (which, of course, fell in a damp but sexy heap on her face after she pounded the crap out of the heavy bag), big limpid eyes, proportional athletic measurements and height--and a mother and doctor to boot. All this and of course those ARMS. Those arms that let her keep up with the boys in "boy" push-ups. Those arms that make the shihan's eyes wander. Early on, when D. and I were getting acquainted she mentioned this woman's actual name. Who? I asked. You know, D replied, "Hot arms." Of course. I knew exactly who she was talking about.

So, in a way, Hot Arms may be as much a victim of our collective body dysphoria as anyone else. But that's a topic for another blog. The point of this one is that we are taking back our own hotness. This is our journey to our own HOT ARMS!