stranger. That was pure fantasy. My schedule didn’t have room for a guy. I worked out six hours a day, two in the morning, four in the evening. I attended college full-time, worked twenty hours a week. With an hour or two for study, food, and showers, I was lucky if I slept four hours a night.
My white gi was blinding white and as stiff as a board when I pulled it on. It smelled of extra bleach, because appearance counts, and extra starch, for crisper moves. I loved the way the stiff fabric pulled across my skin. Sadly that was as sensual as my life got most days. I wondered if the guys watching from the stands were turned on by stiff gis. I imagined them sporting boners and shifting uncomfortably. I laughed at the thought, and when I drew a stern look from another girl who was obviously younger, I blushed, turning my back to her.
I grabbed my obi and wrapped it around my waist. The black belt was faded to almost gray, not from washing, because it had never been washed, but from wear. The gray was only an illusion and was in fact the shredded remnants of the black threads they once were. I pulled it extra tight, liking the confinement. The minute I put on my belt, I felt safer. It was a shield between me and the world. Sounded crazy, but getting ready for competition involved ritual and mindfulness. Tying my obi was the first part.
Everyone had their silly little idiosyncrasies to put their mind at ease and help them relax. I brushed my waist-length brown hair a hundred times, feeling its sensual slide through my fingers before pulling it into a tight ponytail. I pulled on my zip-front black hoodie over my gi top, then lifted the hood over my head. I shoved earbuds into my ears and cranked the volume on my player as loud as it would go to drown out my name.
A quick glance in the mirror assured me that I had my game face on—a terrifying mix of puppy-dog cuteness, angst, and determined warrior. I gave my reflection the finger as I walked out to face staging, the worst part of the entire competition circus. Divided by age, gender, and division, I would be corralled with the other competitors for minutes or hours, usually the latter, until finally my number was called.
I always hid inside the music blaring in my head.
The other competitors milled and paced, chattering incessantly, passing off their bundled nerves as friendliness. I’m not friendly. I’m distant and indifferent.
Competition was my job; just another day at the office…more or less. I was there to win, gain publicity, drive business—not make friends.
“Eighteen to thirty-five, female advanced” was announced over a speaker loud enough to hear over the music in my head. As a group we marshaled out to the gym floor, following a woman wearing a red T-shirt with the word volunteer emblazoned across her shoulders. The first event was kata—a series of moves meant to simulate both defensive and attacking moves but without any opponent. Done properly it was balanced and as gracefully mesmerizing as a dance.
I didn’t watch the others. I zoned out. I would be the last competitor called.
Once up, my moves were flawless, my attention to detail perfect. The crowd went insane as I bowed, ending my kata. They chanted my name, but I didn’t acknowledge them. I sat with the others, waiting as the referees deliberated and scored. I was bored, ready for the next event, ready to be done with the day. Just give me my gold medal so—
Silver was hung around my neck.
That’s when I came out of my competition fog.
Around me the stadium erupted in anger. Fans booed the referees.
I bowed and stepped back from the referee, my world falling apart at the seams. I’d never earned less than gold.
The newcomer stepped forward and smiled widely when the gold medal was looped over her head. She looked toward me, and even though I should have been mad, resentful, angry, I smiled at her. I couldn’t help smiling because she was so happy. It seemed that once upon a time
My white gi was blinding white and as stiff as a board when I pulled it on. It smelled of extra bleach, because appearance counts, and extra starch, for crisper moves. I loved the way the stiff fabric pulled across my skin. Sadly that was as sensual as my life got most days. I wondered if the guys watching from the stands were turned on by stiff gis. I imagined them sporting boners and shifting uncomfortably. I laughed at the thought, and when I drew a stern look from another girl who was obviously younger, I blushed, turning my back to her.
I grabbed my obi and wrapped it around my waist. The black belt was faded to almost gray, not from washing, because it had never been washed, but from wear. The gray was only an illusion and was in fact the shredded remnants of the black threads they once were. I pulled it extra tight, liking the confinement. The minute I put on my belt, I felt safer. It was a shield between me and the world. Sounded crazy, but getting ready for competition involved ritual and mindfulness. Tying my obi was the first part.
Everyone had their silly little idiosyncrasies to put their mind at ease and help them relax. I brushed my waist-length brown hair a hundred times, feeling its sensual slide through my fingers before pulling it into a tight ponytail. I pulled on my zip-front black hoodie over my gi top, then lifted the hood over my head. I shoved earbuds into my ears and cranked the volume on my player as loud as it would go to drown out my name.
A quick glance in the mirror assured me that I had my game face on—a terrifying mix of puppy-dog cuteness, angst, and determined warrior. I gave my reflection the finger as I walked out to face staging, the worst part of the entire competition circus. Divided by age, gender, and division, I would be corralled with the other competitors for minutes or hours, usually the latter, until finally my number was called.
I always hid inside the music blaring in my head.
The other competitors milled and paced, chattering incessantly, passing off their bundled nerves as friendliness. I’m not friendly. I’m distant and indifferent.
Competition was my job; just another day at the office…more or less. I was there to win, gain publicity, drive business—not make friends.
“Eighteen to thirty-five, female advanced” was announced over a speaker loud enough to hear over the music in my head. As a group we marshaled out to the gym floor, following a woman wearing a red T-shirt with the word volunteer emblazoned across her shoulders. The first event was kata—a series of moves meant to simulate both defensive and attacking moves but without any opponent. Done properly it was balanced and as gracefully mesmerizing as a dance.
I didn’t watch the others. I zoned out. I would be the last competitor called.
Once up, my moves were flawless, my attention to detail perfect. The crowd went insane as I bowed, ending my kata. They chanted my name, but I didn’t acknowledge them. I sat with the others, waiting as the referees deliberated and scored. I was bored, ready for the next event, ready to be done with the day. Just give me my gold medal so—
Silver was hung around my neck.
That’s when I came out of my competition fog.
Around me the stadium erupted in anger. Fans booed the referees.
I bowed and stepped back from the referee, my world falling apart at the seams. I’d never earned less than gold.
The newcomer stepped forward and smiled widely when the gold medal was looped over her head. She looked toward me, and even though I should have been mad, resentful, angry, I smiled at her. I couldn’t help smiling because she was so happy. It seemed that once upon a time
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