Psycho-Killer on the Loose. Mom Subdues Him with Martial Arts Skills.

It's a good thing I didn't have plans last Friday night or I would have missed all the excitement. Stuff started happening around 4 p.m. I had picked Ian up at school and we made an emergency frozen yogurt run. As we're driving home and about to cross the main intersection in town, a car with flashing lights flew through the red light, headed in the same direction we were going. That car was followed by three unmarked-yet-official-looking SUVs. None of them did the polite (a.k.a. safe) emergency vehicle thing where they actually pause at the red light, taking into consideration the driver on their cell phone who's not paying attention. Nope. These drivers were flying. Anyone in the way was a goner. I swear one of them was practically on two wheels taking the turn.

I said to Ian, "Something's going on." I've always been very observant. I told him that that was no run of the mill police activity. We wondered, was there a political figure in town that had to be quickly moved to a safe location? Was there something happening at the mall? Were we dealing with terrorists?

Upon arriving home, I took note of an increasing number of sirens coming in our general direction. Ian, always the joker, said, "They're coming to our street." I wasn't amused, but he wasn't joking. Sure enough, a couple local cop cars made their way around our circle. Rather than speeding through, however, they were clearly taking their time. They were driving slowly in search of a bad guy who got away after a federal drug bust at a nearby seedy motel went badly. We locked the doors and watched the action from the living room. All told, over the next hour or two, at least a dozen cops paid a visit to the neighborhood. I called Rob who was in Florida at spring training. Of course, there was nothing he could do to help from that distance, even though he had easy access to a baseball bat, his weapon of choice.

As word began to spread around the neighborhood via email, we learned that one of our neighbors was driving home, and more than a little surprised when she turned the corner to find one cop in the road with his gun drawn, another cop canvassing the area, and a third officer in her driveway. The third officer was kind enough to tell her that her children were safe. Which made her wonder, "Why wouldn't my children be safe? Why do you know about my children??" He explained the scenario and told her to stay inside and lock the doors.

Being the calm and in control individual that I am, I wasn't particularly worked up about this situation. With everything locked up, the authorities on the scene, and my 2nd degree black belt in Tang Soo Do, I figured we were completely safe. But then the sun set and the bad guy still hadn't been found, and there were helicopters overhead, and I had to take Abby to softball practice. And suddenly I was pretty freaked out. The fact that our shed door was partially open did not ease my anxiety.

I hustled both Ian and Abby into the minivan, which I had parked in the garage so they wouldn't have to come out and face the cold-blooded killer still on the loose in our backyard (this is how those urban legends are formed). No longer calm and under control, my heart beating furiously, I quickly backed out of the garage to put some distance between us and this madman. Unfortunately, I was quicker on the gas pedal than the garage door was on its track. Now I could not fully open or fully close the door, meaning I could not get the van out of the garage, and the door was open just enough to allow the psychopath to come in, wielding his chainsaw.

At this point, I call Rob. He has a baseball bat. In Florida. I manically explain the situation. He cannot help me. I figure out how to disconnect the power to the door so that I can manually open it with my brute strength. I get the van out. Now I cannot close the door. Ian helps me with his brute strength. Filled with anxiety, I back out of the driveway, taking a section of the lawn with me when I fail to keep the steering wheel straight. We leave the house,  knowing the garage door can be lifted and the fugitive from justice may be hiding in there when we get home. Rob texts me: "Don't go straight home after taking Abby to softball practice. Find a television somewhere and see what's going on before you head back." I don't listen.

By the time we return, all activity on the street has ceased. The helicopters are gone. My shed door is still ajar, but not widely enough to have allowed in what they tell us was a very big man. Still, three days later, Abby refuses to put the sleds away in the shed because that homicidal maniac could be hiding therein.

This whole situation was unnerving in how unnerved it made me feel. I always thought I'd be calm and cool in any dangerous situation. Figured worse comes to worst, I could put those eight years of martial arts to work and bust up the madman with a few swift kicks to the head. And if that didn't work, I could pull out the super cool and scary looking knife I was gifted with upon earning my 2nd degree belt. But alas, rather than allow my adrenaline to prepare me for a fight, I allowed my adrenaline to drive me into my garage door (which I later managed to fix with duct tape, by the way).

Naturally my dad's response to all this was to highly recommend a firearm safety training course (I would first need the firearm), but based on my sweaty palms, nervous stomach, and shaky legs, I'm pretty sure I'd be more likely to shoot myself in the foot, literally, than to scare off the bad guy.

Whom they still haven't found...

When the Going Gets Tough

On Saturday I tested for my 2nd degree black belt at World Class Martial Arts. It was three hours of hell requiring 800 jumping jacks, 400 sit-ups, 200 push-ups, and 100 leg extensions. And that was just the cardio stuff designed to break us. Add to that line drills, sparring, self-defense, break falls, forms, and breaking boards and concrete, and you might excuse my taking timeout to hyperventilate and cry during the three-hour torture treatment.

Even after all that, if I ever regain use of my legs and hips, I'll return to training.

Yes, there's a part of me that screams over the pain in my thighs, "You're getting too old for this. Do something more gentle." But the reality is, I can't stop. Part of it is the fear that if I stop, all the calories and fat I've eaten for the past 40 years will catch up with me overnight and I'll wake up weighing a minimum 300 pounds. If I stop training I'll have to stop eating cheese steaks and nachos and trade in beer for water in order to save calories. No one wants that.

Another reason I need to keep training is for the emotional release it provides. For less than the cost of seeing a therapist, I can kick and punch my troubles away and burn calories in the process. Just ask my family, if I don't go t o class for several days, I'm really not fit to live with. It's that important for my mental health.

The friendships I have at World Class Martial Arts are also a driving force behind my being there. Our wildly diverse family is wonderfully supportive, encouraging, and simply fun to be a part of. Danielle, Steve, Phil "the Animal," Wild Bill, Mr. Pete, Jane, John, Chip, Muneer, Jen, Chris, Anthony, LeeAnn, and of course Master Aaron. Another host of heavenly Freakin' Angels in my life.

These are all excellent reasons to continue at WCMA, but the number one reason I stay with this sport that occasionally tortures me while I train? The challenge. It forces me out of  my comfort zone, but does so in a way that manages to keep me going.

The reality is that Tang Soo Do is the first thing in my life I've ever stuck with that I'm not particularly good at. For the past 40 years, I've quickly quit everything that didn't come easily to me. Tried skiing once. Loved it. Tried skiing a second time, icy conditions scared me to death, I was a wreck. Haven't tried it since. That's pretty much my M.O. When the going got tough, Kim got going. I've been blessed to be reasonably good at enough things that no one seemed to notice what a quitter I was.

Sticking with Tang Soo Do even though it doesn't come easy to me and often brings out the worst in  me was originally about setting a good example for my children. Now it's about having one thing in my life that continues to challenge me and make me stronger. And it's something that's completely within my control. Economics don't dictate my success as they do in my career. Tween hormones don't wreck havoc with my performance as they do at home. The amount of sugar in the students doesn't determine my effectiveness as it does in my Sunday school class. No, what happens during a Tang Soo Do class depends completely on what I bring to the table. Some nights its my fears, insecurities, and self-doubt (and those nights are ugly). Other nights it's anger and frustration that drive me (and those nights it's great to be sparring). Often, it's simply the relief of knowing I'm in a safe, supportive place that makes WCMA the best place for me to be.

Everyone needs their own WCMA/Tang Soo Do, something, someone, or someplace which challenges you and drives  you to be better than you think you can be. What does it for you?

The Day I Decided to Take Up Drinking

Rather than using this post to fully develop one particular idea, I think I 'm just going to use it to sound off on a variety of thoughts I'm having right now. Bear with me or feel free to check back in a few days when I've focused in on something you might find more enjoyable.


Random Musings

1. Based on his recent 11-year-old behavior/mood/personality, I'm not sure Ian is going to actually live to see the teen years. What has gotten into my heretofore golden boy? Someone get him a Midol stat. 
2. My weekend in Harvey Cedars was terrific. As it always is. Except for all the babies that I drove to tears. 
3. The Freakin' Angels finally got a most-of-the-group picture. Kim G. wants it noted that she is not in her FA shirt because her husband lost it after I gave it to him to give to her. That's okay, Kim, we still know you're an angel.
4. I have some thoughts about sea shells that I think are rather poignant, so you have that to look forward to in a later post...when I'm in the mood to talk about sea shells. Which I'm not right now.
5. My cat has twice missed the mark when trying to jump up to the table or counter and my dog has an eye infection. 
6. A "Luxury pet resort" is only luxury when you upgrade from the standard suite. Total BS if you ask me.
7. I have decided to give up Tang Soo Do and take up drinking instead. Ah, you knew it was coming, didn't you? You knew there was an issue I was just itching to address. Yep. It's that damn black belt test on Saturday. E Dan. 2nd degree.What the heck was I thinking when I agreed to this? It's actually costing me money in addition to my sanity, self-esteem, and entire sense of well-being. 

See here's the thing. I'm not being modest when I say I 'm not very good at the martial arts. I'm really not. I've got a great round house and ax kick, but that's about it. I really don't feel deserving of a second degree black belt. I've had this battle discussion with my instructor and he insists I wouldn't be testing if he didn't believe I was deserving and qualified, but our ideas of deserving and qualified are very different. I think there's a right and wrong. A correct and incorrect. You're one or the other. He takes a much more subjective approach that works in my favor, but doesn't work for my confidence. He notes that I'm the best 40 year-old woman student in our school. I happen to know that I'm the ONLY 40-year-old woman in our school. Needless to say, that's not exactly motivational. What happens when I encounter another 40-year-old in the streets and she kicks my ass?


I'm throwing the Tang Soo Do "indomitable spirit" tenet out the window and I'm going to focus my energies instead on "wine and spirits." I think if train real hard I can be the best drinker in my neighborhood by the time I'm 45. Now that's an accomplishment to include in the Christmas letters!