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.