Christmas and the flu

… go hand in hand together with me. No stress=permission to collapse for my body.

So here I am, there’s my grandma’s Christmas feast, and I’m stuck with a measly cup of soup, a runny nose and a cough that would wake Santa from his well-deserved rest.

Argh!

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I’m a lady!

Had a guest instructor come in for TKD yesterday. Hope he’s not going to be supervising and leading my class today since he seems to think that shouting is a valid method of instruction.

I’m not going to be shouted at- I’m a girl, no, I’m a lady. Instructors shouting at me has a reverse effect in that I flat-out refuse to do whatever they want me to (even if it’s a good thing) until they ask me politely. I don’t shout, so please extend me the same courtesy.

This guy thought we were some kind of military training facility I believe since he shouted into my ear to be doing push-ups.

I left class early.

Like I said, I don’t do being shouted at. I also don’t stand for rude people who take the ART out of a martial art and turn it into a combat tool. I trained some more at home, and went for a run that night.

But seriously, do people think that shouting makes other people obey their commands easier or do what they want faster? A whispered word can be more efficient than a shout; maybe it’s time for that lesson to sink in.

Season’s starting!

Found an e-mail in my inbox just now saying that they’ve finally managed to put up the tennis hall covers at my club. Phoned the playing partners just now aaaaannnd…

For the first time in three weeks, I get to play this afternoon! YAY!

Breaked my finger

Sitting in the hospital waiting area is certainly a lot more entertaining when you have the benefit of pain medication, but even without there are a few things to take your mind off your own misery.

Like this little girl of no more than three who came up to me leaning back against the chair, eyes closed and cradling my right hand to my chest.

“What you do?”

“I don’t know yet. I’m waiting for my x-rays.”

“You speak funny.”

“It’s called an accent. And I’m sorry if I’m hard to understand.”

“My uncle funny-speaks. I know.”

“Ah, so you’ve had practice. That’s great!”

“He very nice. What you do?”

“I think I broke a couple fingers.”

“Why?”

“Because I was trying to hit a ball back to the opposing team.”

“Why?”

“So we would win.”

“Why?”

“Because I hate to lose.”

“Why?”

“Because it makes me feel useless.”

“What useless?”

“If you don’t know what to do with it.”

“If I don’t know what to do with it I breaked my finger?”

“NO!”

Thankfully, the girl’s mother (who’d needed stitches in a hand cut in the kitchen) came and rescued me. After getting x-rayed and splinted, I went to say goodbye but they had left before me. I don’t think I’d have been up for another round of the why-game anyway.

Shocking! Food imperialism!

Just saw it on TV. They’re introducing mac&cheese to Germany (only they call it “meghan tschuess” here)!

Now, it’s not our normal, classic packages of pasta and orange-y cheese powder- they have to use their own pasta and real Emmentaler cheese and basically just get a spice mix (there’s spice in mac&cheese?).

Just goes to show, the Germans even make something that’s the definition of comfort food into an exercise in how to eat healthy ;D

Gym-o-phobe?

I hate gyms.

No, seriously. I hate the smell, the noise of these stupid machines, the grunts of exertion resounding around the room. I hate weight training. I hate treadmills, steppers, stairmasters.

I love running outside. I love swimming. I love my martial arts (I’m doing more of a mixed martial arts style by now because I’m mixing TKD with ancient Korean martial arts, do Tai Chi in the classic Yang style, do iaido and just got started on fighting fans). I even like doing my forms with weights on my wrists, ankles, biceps and around my waist just because it’s not classic weight training (and let me tell you, some of them are harder than weight training can be. Ever tried doing a slow kick on waist height with a five-pound weight on your ankle? Ouch!).

I guess I’m a gym-o-phobe. My sports club here in Germany has a multitude of courses to chose from, not one of which is a classic gym workout. They keep me occupied during these cold winter months.

They also put up the tennis court cover halls this week, so I’m going to start on that next week or in two weeks depending on my partners. Can’t wait to go chasing that yellow ball again! My fencing trainer’s license should be coming through some time this month as well so I’m going to be coaching once more.

Hell, I still need to work. Dammit!

The funny thing is that though most of my sports put me in direct competition with everyone else in the class, none of them involve the kind of body-judging grunt-adjusting thing that goes on in the gym. You’re not competing about your bodies, you’re competing with your bodies.

I’ll never have a model’s figure (full thighs, butt, muscled arms, wide ribcage and shoulders), but dammit can I do a drop-kick on a model’s 6′-high head. Coming back from a workout, I always feel energized. I don’t feel down, or bad about myself because I didn’t compare. Even if I couldn’t do something (and yes, I’m looking at that fucking triple jump-kick combo thing I should be doing that has me landing on my butt all the time), I’m more fired up than anything else. Even if I lose a bout, I don’t feel like being a sore loser. I feel like I’ve learned something.

I guess that’s what irks me a lot about traditional gym workouts- the lack of learning progress. There’s only so many exercises you can do on those machines or with those weights after all, and your body offers limitless opportunities to play with it.

That said, I should be sleeping right now. Have to go to the office in five hours. Oh shit!

Running off

My mouth has a tendency to run away with me. Case in point? Person from the French-speaking part of the African continent, representative of a big client, visited the firm today. Why the hell they put me in charge of greeting and dealing with him after the whole Sheikh debacle (a story for another post) I’ll never know. Anyway, this guy was strutting around all “mine are the biggest”-like, and I was gritting my teeth and dealing with lingering hands with the utmost politeness (IMO) and my best French (like every language I learned on my own, I learned the gutter-variety).

Then we came to the deal part of the day. I was chomping at the bit to finally present my contract draft and be done with the guy, so I pulled out my nicely done black folder.

“I want a man to do business with.” The client.

“And I want a client that isn’t a chauvinist macho asshole.” Me.

Guess who got escorted out of the room?

Still feel good for speaking my mind, though. I put up with that… person for three hours. Called it an early night thereafter, went for a quick 5k and called my TKD master asking to join a Tai Chi workout (as a point, we never do any kicking when any of us aren’t in a centered mood. As one of his most advanced students, I also earned the right to call him if I wanted to train) to center myself, which sorta worked. I went home, sat on my sofa and started¬† reading blogs.

Hot chocolate time! Roomie’s still in South Africa. LONE hot chocolate time!

… I wish someone would teach those guys what Western women think like. Or just not ask me to deal with them time after time after time. I know not all males from that particular sociocultural environment are the same, but most in a higher position in a traditionally oriented workplace are. I’m also a “permanent rebel” who will not defer to social customs I see as demeaning. I’m the worst possible choice to deal with a traditionally-minded male from that culture. Let me be, boss?