Esprit de Corps

https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tirant_lo_Blanch#

The literal translation for "esprit de corps"* is the spirit as it is expressed through the body, though its older usage described morale in the military. In truth, it was the best description I had for a Pinterest board I made about movement that covered art, dance, athleticism, martial arts, motion, movement, and the joy of being alive as it relates to the use of our bodies. Certainly, anyone who's ever been in mortal danger has their muscle memories to thank for the continued use of their body as it relates to other activities in a more peaceful future.

Sometimes, when I talk to my mom about my dreams or her MS, she tells me she has recurring dreams about running through a field of grass when, in truth, she was never athletic or even inclined to be active, preferring instead to sit and talk on the phone for hours, or dunk cookies in her tea (annoyingly, when also on the phone), or watch t.v. as she flips through magazines. She'll say it's because of her illness or her allergies (that she also sometimes forgets she has) but, really, it's because her personality prefers sedentary creature comforts. How odd, then, that her brain conjures up vigorous movement to express freedom and joy; feelings she was much more apt to attribute to cars rather than herself when she was younger and slightly more mobile, as part of her innate preferences for machines and artificial experiences over the real and the human.

When I studied ballet, I loved flying through the air the same way I liked swinging through the trees in our backyard, or spinning in a tire swing. Children excel at movement, in part because of their lower centers of gravity, something my less physically gifted parents would often quote at us, as further excuses for their inertia, cleverly designed to hide their laziness through pseudo-scientific phrasing. In contrast, we were made to work all the time, and when we did feel sick or take breaks, our parents hated that, too. "Get up! Do something!" It felt like they used us as charms to stave off their diseases, when they actually nursed our afflictions to budding stages.

There was a ferocity to our play-fighting as kids that transcended the typical city dwellers experience. My mom described us as "savages" or "wild monkeys hopped up on sugar" to her friends and family who are also round and cynical about it.  What were we?! She described the differences between us "soooo strange", like we were bound to be discovered as an ancient pygmy tribe from the bush any day. Me and my brother could fight for hours, scaling the narrow walls of our house's hallway like contestants on the game show "American Ninja Warrior", and it totally freaked her out. She'd never seen stuff like that before, especially among her squat hobbit clan.

I saw a native boy compete on the show last season, without any targeted training or benefit of a special obstacle course built just for appearing on the show, because he rightly assumed that his competitive sport of mountain climbing would do the trick for him, and it did. He grabbed a rope, released it in midair while spinning around to backwards-grab a moving obstacle that he then leapt from, landing perfectly on a mat with both feet. "Whoa! WHAT WAS THAT?!!", one of the announcers yelled out to the roaring crowd. That was an Indian, bro. His bright black eyes flashed with the same gleeful intensity as his big beautiful smile, pressing the red button that signalled his succesful finish. Welcome to the fight. We've missed you.


* https://www.vocabulary.com/dictionary/esprit%20de%20corps

I Got the Will (Drive Myself Sleepless)

Most common "gym rats" are notorious addicts looking to divert their angst-driven energies into something else besides cocaine and alcohol, and the endless sleepless nights that accompany serious bouts with manic depression. When I trained in martial arts, the sales pitches mirrored the mentality of their community comprised mainly of high school drop-outs, with the occasional two-year college program for a sports-related major thrown in for a better salary, which meant that they tried to sell me on their type of packaging. I didn't "train" to lose weight from the holidays or from over-eating, I wasn't there to get ready to go to the beach for the summer (I'm a native, yo! My routine is: wake up, brush teeth and hair, put on a suit with a cover-up, grab a towel, and LET'S FUCKING GO!!), or counteract my hypertension and/or hyperactive disorders. I was actually much weirder for them.

I was there because I'm a fighter, and I fight everyday to make the world a better place through my works. I know! It was like I was so fucking alien and strange to them, that the sports kids working the joint finally gave up talking to me (a great sign that they finally "got it" about me), or trying to use some tired sales pitch to "get me" to buy more classes. I either have the time, money, and inclination, or I don't. There simply isn't anything some junior can do or say to me that will "get me" to do anything, which makes Gen X the most hated marketing demographic the modern world has ever seen, giving me and my friends a great deal to be proud of, as it reflects our angry young punk view of the world. "Fuck you! Feed someone!" <middle finger> You know? Just get real with it, already. I don't need your tired ass tryin' to pick my pocket, muthafucka. I already ride the subway every day.

That's how I felt about it back then. If you're not adding value to my life, you're gone from it. I didn't have anything leftover to give. I was already making beautiful books for the public as fast as I could, at a cut rate price point that was way below market-value, giving the rest away to rent, food, medicine, clothing, and some fucking gym(s). They weren't putting money in my pocket, you know? It was all one way with them, so no need to be so fucking coy about it. Anyway, it was a "no harm, no foul" kind of situation for me. You don't go out of your way to mess with me, then I will show up, take your class(es), train, and then leave.  That's what I give: a perfect, static-free ride that puts money in your pocket with my attendance. What more do you need?

But, that's not what an addicts sells. They always want more. Way more. When I "leveled up" to my brother's harder martial arts school for the seriously wealthy wanna-be and those athletes who are supported by their deep-pocketed fandom, I knew it was risky just being there. My brother routinely lies about how much experience he has as a martial artist with a lot of disposable income, and artificially lowers his belt rankings whenever he feels like, so he can appear more like a beginner, and win against more gifted fighters with less experience in class and in competition. He's also a lot bigger than most dudes, which makes him less injury-prone in BJJ, and he likes to hurt people. Badly. He's a dude with some serious issues.

And so, his "pro" school reflected this warped world at an insanely jacked-up rate, with a lot more intensity than the average McDojo at your local strip mall. Know what I'm sayin'? Our gi's were embroidered with the word "competition" emblazoned on them already, regardless of a student's level or skill, just to let newcomers know that they're all seen as "fresh meat". And the kooks were quick to come-out. My flushing mechanisms were well-honed by then, so I knew crazy bitches would try to hurt me. What can I say? I was already injured. I popped my own meniscus (already damaged) and my partial ACL tear to a full one at my own discretion, doing a class drill common for BJJ but killer on your knees. Most addicts immediately get surgery (and more than just one or two knee surgeries, these are hard-bitten junkies, after all), but I didn't have the time or money to do so.

Besides, ACL replacement surgery is this harmful roll of the dice where you can either 1) receive a cadaver graft (!!!) from a recently expired person, and hope it takes to your body post-surgery without rejection or 2) get a graft made from a ligament lifted from another part of your body, and then keep your leg almost completely immobile for an entire year, and that's before the grueling PT part of your rehabilitative process even begins. Oh, and then you re-tear and re-injure your knee soon after resuming MMA/BJJ training, anyway. It just buys you another year or two in the game.

Huh? Say wha', muthfucka? I ain't in this business gettin' rich! There was absolutely no reason for me to undergo some serious life-threatening procedure so some out-of-town muthafucka can nurse his growing bank account (including his posh pad in Rio), just so I can pretend to be some bad-ass bitch. I rehabbed my knee injury at the YMCA in Brooklyn, because I had to do a similar thing after my first knee surgery from my dog walking accident with Ted. And then, like my doctor said, I just changed sports. It was hard to do, but I did it. I did Tai Chi, an aerobic kickboxing class (for amateurs), swimming, weight lifting, yoga, Pilates, bag training, and running on the elliptical. Problem-solved.

I still have some knee instability, but I have a professional knee brace for more intensive sports (like, say, downhill skiing that I don't do), and a series of other types of commercially-made knee wraps to compensate for rough times, like spring, when the weather turns really wet and humid. Always bothers my knee. C'est la vie. Here I am still writing to you, and that's what really counts in my world. My life story is what I trained to be a sensei* in, not your broke-ass view of the world, rife with crime and drugs. Feel me? I'm not a gym toy or a work-out machine for a bunch of screw ups to use at their discretion, pro career or not. Seek yo' gym fodder elsewhere.

After my real agenda became known, the intensity of the "hard sell" upon the other gym clients became more intense. If they slept a decent 8-9 hours worth of sleep a night, then they were characterized as "shiftless and lazy" in some classes because (in the words of one famous athlete) "your competition is training while you sleep!" Uh, excuse me? That muthafucka in the UFC was out bangin' last night at some club with a bunch of ugly-ass hookers, and I know that because I saw the footage live on entertainment t.v., whacked out on coke and his own self-created case of OCD. Get the fuck out! 

But, the more susceptible people around me took such wildly-made and totally irresponsible claims to heart. For them, their newly adopted sport held the zeal of a recent religious convert, pouring their emotions about their lives into something that could be as banal as sweating it out on some funky blue mats on a Monday evening with an out-of-shape fat dude in a bright headband sporting a really bad attitude because he isn't a real athlete, or fighter, or warrior. The reality behind any kind of training is the regularity and repetition of it, though with the more advanced classes and sparring sessions of MMA, that boredom is alleviated by the harder challenges each fighter faces, whether they be emotional, financial, mental, psychological, or physical. 

At the end of my stints training in other people's places, I came out with the exact same sense of self that I had before (and after) my MMA training: if I work hard enough, I can do anything. Of course, age and injury visits us all at some point in life, but the awe the other martial arts students in class had for me—and my relative maturity, in comparison to theirs—in those highly stressful fight sessions (regardless of age), pointed out anew to me what every art and design studio I'd ever worked for already knew about me: that I was already a "black belt" in life, and that I'd been one for a very long time. It wasn't something you could buy, or earn at some gym. And dip-shit, get a good night's sleep. That's mandatory. See you out there!

* https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sensei

for Cassius

Sleepless by Soul Coughing

I got the will to drive myself sleepless
I got the will to drive myself sleepless
I got the will to drive myself sleepless
I got the will to drive myself sleepless

So much time is cashed
So much smoke is wasted
Sudden disappearance
And the air is thick and cool

And I can't approach myself
Skidding over this perdition
And now I'm out on the veranda
When I should have gone to school

I got the will to drive myself sleepless
I got the will to drive myself sleepless
I got the will to drive myself sleepless
I got the will to drive myself sleepless

Well I call for sleep
But sleep it won't come to me
Shuffling in the hallway
I can hear him on the stairs

And I hear his lighter flicking
I hear the soft sigh of his inhale
And the whole width of my intentions
He exhales into the air, yea

I got the will to drive myself sleepless
I got the will to drive myself sleepless
I got the will to drive myself sleepless
I got the will to drive myself sleepless

I got the will to drive myself sleepless
I got the will to drive myself sleepless
I got the will to drive myself sleepless
I got the will to drive myself sleepless

I got the will to drive myself sleepless
I got the will to drive myself sleepless
I got the will to drive myself sleepless

Skeedunt, stunt the runt
Smoking Buddha blunt
Skeedunt, stunt the runt
Skeedunt, stunt the runt
Smoking Buddha blunt
Skeedunt, stunt the runt

I got the will to drive myself sleepless
I got the will to drive myself sleepless, sleepless, sleepless

I got the will to drive myself sleepless
I got the will to drive myself sleepless
Sleep, sleep, sleep
Sleep, sleep, sleep
Sleep, sleep, sleepless

"Jits, bitch!"

I understand that some celebrities and other well-known personalities are often portrayed as targets for public aggression, but sometimes all that static is justified. I didn't need to see the entire video of a rapper trying to game some neighborhood kids to know that it's not right for a grown man to sucker punch a teenager, no matter how much a youngin' sasses back at you. Anyway, what the heck is he doin' trying to run a soccer game in their 'hood? He ain't from Atlanta. He's from Ohio (I checked), so why does he step up to manning their game? Is he a soccer pro? What's with the one-glove action?! 

What makes him qualified to step in and boss some kids around, kids who look like they're having a local game on their block, not some group team practice? Chill, mutha! And if you got grown-ass men actin' like children in your game, then do what this smart kid does: drop him in a tackle, take the back by holding your mount, then finish him with a reliable hold like the "rear naked choke". That's how you win without ever having to throw one single punch (might hurt your hand, yo!), and that is the magic of Jiu Jitsu, friends. Stay safe out there, kids. Urban jungles can be rough with the wrong crowd!  And have fun :)

http://www.afterschoolalliance.org/

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Brazilian_jiu-jitsu

Skeleteon in the Closet

Pour vous, Isabelle.

Summertime is a big deal for a lot of women, and not just because school is out, and the kids are home ALL DAY LONG. I never really thought adversely about going to the beach or the pool, because I've been a swimmer for as long as I can remember. What's not to like? But, like any other social situation filled with strangers and new people comes the attitude that many women and girls have about their bodies. I don't have any issues about mine, because I do the right things: I eat clean, good food that I enjoy cooking and eating, I walk every day, I do yoga or swim or practice martial arts...something happens in my life to keep me on track, because I am motivated to have the best life ever. 
I want to have fun and enjoy myself.

Don't get me wrong; I smoked and drank my way through the SUNY school system like any other college kid on a strict budget, but I never got it twisted. I actually wanted to show off my bikini body every year, and why wouldn't I? I work hard at it, and I want to stay beautiful for as long as I can for my partner, because I care about how he feels. I know he thinks the same way about himself towards me, too. Not that MMA is the sport for "working out", because it is extremely intense training (like my childhood ballet lessons that could have been a really serious career), but I have had points in my life when I gained unwanted weight from neglect, typically because I was working a job so stressful, most people take some sort of drug (or cocktail) to get through it. 

And so, try as I might, I no longer feel any pressures to conform to any standard other than the one I set for myself, because childhood was my time for insecurities. I survived my time in grade school, with mean bullies and schoolyard taunts. That doesn't mean today's "PSA" is a joke; far from it. Every day in my happy little home here in the Hudson Valley I see my beautiful people out in public, mixing it up in our common community spaces with people far less fortunate than us. They say the Irish are blessed with luck, charm, and good looks, and that's true, though I think it's more than a fair trade off for centuries of brutal oppression, military occupation, and countrywide starvation. 
We earned it proper. 

Yet, many cultures still demonize their women for their looks (or lack thereof), which leaves one to wonder why a woman with a serious brain disorder would dare hope to have a happy, healthy, attractive child. From what?! Thin air? It takes a lot more than running around a track like a lunatic because your mom committed suicide, and 30 years later you still can't talk about it until you are gaunt and winded. The work that I do (physical stuff included) is a lot more demanding than me running away from my problems and the world, just as starvation and hunger will not bring you the peace you seek. You need help, and I'll be here for you, girl, but first ya gotta eat something. I mean it.

http://www.nytimes.com/2010/12/31/world/europe/31caro.html?_r=0

 

Fish Tale

 

http://www.dec.ny.gov/animals/269.html

I've written before about the weird international rock-star status that follows New Yorkers around wherever we are in the world, being a world capital for many centuries now. It's become synonymous with fame in "human", which takes some getting used to, because it's a really strange concept to be known for something as random as where you were born, but such is life. 

Handling your rise in societal stature rocks many a person coming up, and it can totally wreck you if you aren't prepared for that kind of attention and heat. Some people resort to a "Seinfeld"-like caricature, thinking it will amuse the natives into acceptance; others choose to disown their homeland completely, preferring to try blending in with the locals, which typically results in a funny/sad "My Cousin Vinny"-type of disillusionment. Many simply realize who they are, and come home. Wouldn't you?

I've accepted my home along with many other gifts, but I've had to work at it like anything else. Once you conquer the urban jungle, one quickly moves past the clichés to the real deal, because most New Yorkers do not live on the permanent stage set that Midtown has become for tourist revenue. Now what?! 

http://www.dec.ny.gov/animals/52634.html

It's laughable to me, because as a native, I can disappear into the vastness that is New York state any time I want to, which will be a foreign concept to you until you actually rent a car and drive upstate. It's wild, it's mountainous, it's very cold (like Canada), and it will scare the fuck out of you, as any serious forest should. Every year, we lose professional people to it, like the young trooper who was killed early this season, when a migrating deer collided with his vehicle while crossing a back road.

To us, it's going back into the heart of darkness where the wild things are, and I love it. Trying to grasp a city as large as New York is impossible without experiencing it, and so is our wilderness. It's the lushness of it, the sheer enormity of our space that overwhelms most tourists, and that's exactly why we like it so much; you should be afraid of it to really appreciate it. 

http://www.dec.ny.gov/65.html

That's the respect any difficult place builds into the people who live their lives within it, and so you should do that. For many natives, it's also part of our deep, abiding faith. We love New York, and I ❤ NY, too. Even our logo* and motto is world famous! It's time for you to see why. See you there....or not: http://www.dec.ny.gov/23.htm

* https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/I_Love_New_York

Fame and Fortune (Football and Farming)

When I was growing up, my dad used to say "if you have to choose between fame and fortune, you should choose fortune". Of course, he said this as a tentative, new businessman sensitive to humble origins, during a time when having our last name meant near-constant hazing and bullying on the mean streets of New York, especially on a rough, working class block in BedStuy (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bedford%E2%80%93Stuyvesant,_Brooklyn), where standing out doesn't help you out at all. It hurts, sometimes a lot. Such is the fate of being just one among many; they (the people in our surroundings) have a lot more common ground than us, and we had our fair share of bullying and beatings during childhood, too.

Me and my brothers fared no better than my father did in the 'burbs or the country, and widening out our territory only drew more attention my way. My dad has chosen to be, as he puts it, a "big fish in a very small pond", tucked safely away in a extremely rural corner of the globe, where he retreats when life and family obligations become too demanding for him, but I have chosen to stop running away from the fates, which find me no matter where I go. I know. I've tried.

So when I see a story that centers around the good things that attention can do, my interest is piqued. When it uses fame and fortune as a leverage for the best things in life, like charity, farming G-d's green earth, and giving back, I'm sold. Farm, faith, and family? Never goes out of style. See for yourself. (Thanks, to Jason Brown).

Bart Discovers MMA

Forgotten at school, again.

"Where's your brother?"

Uh oh. Police Mom Marge is here.

Bart's caught fighting in the playground...

...with Homer's support. Ooops.

So Marge takes on the head of a fight league in order to protest violence, and its effect on kids...

...and kicks his ass. Margie likey!

But, what effect does it have on little Lisa and her brother Bart?

A new generation of fighters! Tune in to the very end to see who wins.

Dedicated to me and my bro Bernie, fighting since we were babies in the late 60s, now celebrating a great sport that finally matches the dreams (and scuffles) of our youth. Special "shout out" to all you "crazy" kids and silly, little dreamers. Here. We. Go.

The Yoga Mat

The yoga mat.

Every Monday, me and a group of retirees (I'm the youngest attendee so far, surprisingly) do an entire hour of basic yoga FOR FREE. That's right, free, at our local library. I'm pleasantly surprised by the exercise, but also grateful. As a middle-aged athlete who is also currently un-insured, I have to be very careful. At the height of my brief dojo career at two big name gyms in the city, I often rolled BJJ and sparred MMA with 20-somethings who practiced various forms of these extreme full contact supports without any health insurance whatsoever. When I asked them what they did when they got injured, they often shrugged their shoulders, and said "Just wait, I guess. And heal."

And so it happened to me, except I was still covered under the policy I was paying for. I found out that, in addition to the two pins put in place years ago after a knee surgery that was the result of an injury I got when walking my dog, I tore my ACL and also had a medial meniscus tear, along with bone, ligament, and tendon bruising. Well, at least I didn't fracture anything this time, I guess.

The yoga mat and me.

I decided not to have expensive (and somewhat risky) ACL surgery, because I did not have the ability to undergo a lengthy PT process while I struggled to keep my head above water in these uncertain times (and because no one can do the work I do with my own hands), so since then, I've had the dubious challenge of staying physically fit while enduring fits of employment coupled with lingering fears about homelessness and starvation. Quite the potent cocktail.

Last year I found a cut rate Tai Chi class that met outdoors, and then went up gradually in price as the teacher felt she could get away with. Understandable, but also, not my thing. I get bored with Tai Chi quickly, and I still have a lot of energy. So, it's now yoga, the tai chi form I learned last year, with a lot of walking thrown in for good measure, and right now, it's exactly what I need. Many of the stretches we do in class are the same ones we do in martial arts during the warm up and cool down phases, anyway.

Plus, I've met a great group of people who I share a lot in common with, something that's always occurred between me and the generation above Baby Boomers; blessings all to me. Stay fit, America. We need our strength, now more than ever. Have a great week.

Beauty: Make-Up Free Marie

Tired, make up free me looks OK (with help from cleavage).

I was surfing Twitter last week, and I noticed a story about celebrity women without make up that freaked me out. They're not new stories, and of course, the shots were by paparazzi in a quest to catch these particular celebs at their worst, (women famed for their beauty), either in poor lighting, or very early in the morning, or just leaving the gym, or when they weren't dieting for a role. Jesus. The "with" makeup and "without" shots were gruesomely different, with the exception of one or two woman, most notably Kim Kardashian, who looks great naturally. I've written about my public stance on cosmetics before: I'm not against them at all, I just don't want to get caught out looking like a circus clown in plain clothes, or a drag queen on her day off. I blame overzealous Photoshopping production artists pushed by ad execs as much as I do the photographers, though. You have to be complicit with sort of thing to airbrushwoman into all irrelevance with regards to her day to day life.

Me, the morning of this piece, minutes after waking up, make up free.

As it so often does, pop culture lead me back to myself, to take a good hard look. I know I look great at 43, I know I look great without make up, I know I'm photogenic, and I know I 'm an exception to most rules, but I'm also a woman, vulnerable to the same harshness of society's gaze as any other woman walking the streets, and I've heard it all: "She's plain" to "She has, like, these little bumps all over her face that you can see if you talk to her up close" overheard by me as a bridesmaid to my soon-to-be sister-in-law. Yay! She ignores me mostly or takes weird passive-aggressive snipes under her breath when she leaves the room. For the record, my skin DOES have bumps, and pores, and some fine lines, and sometimes blemishes, just like all human skin does. It doesn't not have the excessive skin damage of say, a sister-in-law who thinks that tanning cures all her ills. Sorry, girl. I'm pale and I know it. But by knowing who we are really well, it prevents other  people's insecurities from getting under are skin, and that's the most valuable advice I can give any girls out there struggling with the crap thrown at them when they dare to look through a fashion mag: to thine own self be true, and the rest are just haters.

Me in natural light, with pores, bumps, blemishes, and some fine lines.
I'm wearing cover up set with powder, mascara, cream blush, & lip balm. 

So, in the interest of honesty, I shot myself in different lighting conditions, with makeup and without, while still trying to get a nice looking pic with good color, clarity, good composition, etc. And it really is true, I honestly prefer myself without make up because my dark eyes pop out against my skin tone, which gives me what I think is a unique appearance, one that holds the key to my ethnicity and cultural make up. I also train fairly regularly in gyms or dojos, and if there's one thing I know for sure, it's this: if you have even a bit of oily skin, the quickest way to ugly break outs is sweating profusely in make up. It's just so gross, plus it gets on my gi, and that stresses me out more. I may leave cover up on a raging blemish out of deference to my sparring partner, but even that I dislike. I wash it ALL off before I train, and I wash my face again afterwards, going home with a clean face. 

Diffuse light gives a warm glow to the skin that's favorable.

 It's one of the times when I feel most like myself. In professional settings, I prefer to wear make up because it helps me either blend in or knock 'em dead (like war paint), depending upon whichever effect I need to perform for that day. I famously took the summer off from cosmetics at one publishing house early in my career; it gives my skin a chance to air out, plus I get freckles, a little color that I find appealing, and my hair lightens up in the sun. Instead of saying kudos, the art director looked at me and noted I looked "surprisingly well". He's not exactly my biggest fan, but like I wrote, because I actually like myself, I can withstand just about any barb someone throws my way. Wanna-be photogs be warned: not only can I shoot better pics than you armed with just my iPhone (and ruthlessly critique said shots like an art historian in print), I fight, too. Let that sink in, and don't let me catch you behind a bush. When the lights go dim at the end of the day, who are you? Do you like what you see? Do you wake up looking at a stranger in the mirror, or simply like yourself?

Overexposed (highlights are blown out, losing some detail), though still showing some fine lines on the skin that make it realistic as a portrait.

Curly-haired, and you've accepted it? Same: http://www.pinterest.com/mariedoucette/curls/.

This week in TYPE

It was a rich week for me with type. 
I found great examples almost everywhere I went: the label on a cute stuffed animal, crafts displayed at the local library, the nameplate of a dentist at a professional office building, and 
a killer edition of ESPN magazine devoted to the sports of boxing, MMA, and wrestling. What's NOT fun about Lucha Libre?!

 

What kind of 
visual week did you have?

 
Yo, check it: http://www.pinterest.com/mariedoucette/type/.

Me vs. Door Jamb: Door Wins!

Swollen, but hopefully not fractured.

Every fighter I've met loves to take pictures of their injuries, and then show them off to other people. I guess it's proof that we'll live to see another day, or a visual sign of our toughness. Whatever it is, I embrace it. It's part of the sport, so if you can't take a hard hit, don't throw a punch. In any event, hands and feet have tons of small delicate bones that crack easily. It's actually legal to fight an MMA fight with a broken hand, because it's taped up anyway.

I remember having swollen feet after a season of brutally hard kickboxing classes, and I queried the teenager working behind the counter at the dojo about it. It was an enlightening few seconds—there's nothing one can do for it anyway, but tape it up and let it heal, and the substance that grows back over hairline fractures is stronger than bone anyway. That was awesome to hear, and I never forgot it.

In my ridiculous case, I was having some free form fun punching and kicking a standing bag at the office where I work, precariously perched right next to a set of files and a door. I knew it wasn't right to do it, but I was having too much fun, dancing around and throwing hay maker hooks. I hooked the door jamb, and the fight was over. Door jamb wins! This time....

I always throw them wide, because voluptuous women have a harder time keeping their arm close to the body; we have to actually squish into our bosom, which feels really weird. Every guy that's ever seen me swing feels the need at some point to give me “pointers” about something every female fighter I train with already knows, but they're late to the game anyway. Trials started for the next season of The Ultimate Fighter, and there's a women's team on it.

Have at it ladies.

Fight Night History

This past Saturday's UFC night was a historical occasion for women in MMA. It was the first time a female bout was the main card event, and the match-up was every bit as exciting as you'd expect from two very talented and hungry fighters. 

On a personal side note, the preponderance of people of Acadian descent who dominate in the sport can no longer be denied. Given the long and painful history of our people, I'm extraordinarily happy our hard-working values are finally on display for the entire world to see. I'm so proud of you all. 

http://www.mmafighting.com/2013/2/24/4023134/ronda-rousey-vs-liz-carmouche-full-fight-video-highlights-ufc-157-dan-henderson-vs-lyoto-machida 

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Acadian