Shame

I was thinking about body image. Male body image. We already know how important body image is to females, what with pushup bras and makeup and all that. But for men, how close is the connection between our actual appearance and the way we think we look? How important is the opinion of others, about something as utterly personal as the shape of the very substance of your being?

Are you proud of your body? Ashamed? Do you show it off? Do you hide it? Pad it under bulky clothes? Are you too skinny? Underdeveloped? Or puffy and soft and flabby? Do you wear tight sleeveless shirts -- or even more horrifying, tight curve-revealing pants? I refer of course to males.

We’ve all seen it. The guys at the gym, with the mirrors. You know. Even if you don’t go to the gym, you know. We have mirrors at home, after all. For my part, I don’t spend a lot of time in the weight room. Nowadays it might amount to 40 minutes a week, if that. Most likely less. The time I do spend is very focused, and as brief as possible. Warm up, work set, and out. But I do see the same guys, month after month, year after year. Hardly any of them have made any change at all. What are they trying to do? Maintain? That’s great, if they're 97 years old. They’re talking, of course. And looking at themselves in the mirror. Nothing wrong with that. The gym is a sociable place, for them. Not my lookout.

Well, one clique of retards was giggling to themselves about how much weight I was using for my squats. What people giggle about is my lookout, if it’s about me. The alpha loudmouth was heard to refer to me as a “mass clown.” Fuck him. Ignoramus. I’m sure he has a very large penis. I tried to see it, but his shorts were too loose. Tight shirt, though.

Now that that’s off my chest, I’ll continue.

I was raised to be ashamed. About just about everything. Shame is a useful tool. It controls and inhibits undesired behaviour. It inhibits all sorts of behaviours, undesired or otherwise. Shaming should be employed sparingly, and one might hope that it’s not so much imposed as elicited. (We apprehend the distinction between elicit and illicit.) I won’t rehearse the long list of petty betrayals and failures that tormented me as a child. I don’t even have a list. I have forgotten so much. I carry the emotion in my body, encysted, nugget, adding to my mass. (We appreciate the difference between encyst and insist -- and incest, but don’t read anything into that.)

I recall that I always wore a sweater. Every year I’d get one for my birthday, or maybe Christmas, and it wasn’t until high school that I stopped always wearing it. What was that about? It was a way of hiding. It was a way of being held. It was a physical barrier. It was padding. It made me bigger. Well, not always. I remember I took it off to play kickball, once. Years later a friend told me he’d never seen anyone so white. Do you think this is a non sequitur?

Up until not very long ago I was pee shy. Too much information? I just didn’t like anyone around. Now I hardly care. I’ve had enough showers at the Y to have lost a measure of modesty. Mind, I’m not one of those guys who struts about butt naked, sails lufting in the wind. If you want to see my penis, you have to take a shower with me. Hm. That didn’t come out right. And it may not even be true. Let’s just move on.

After I’ve been rolling, now, and I’m trying to cool down, I’ll take off my shirt. It took me a long time to lose that sense of ... not self-consciousness ... not shame, surely ... I don’t think there’s a word for it. Something to do with disapproving attention. Something to do with being apologetic. I’m just trying to lose heat, dammit. Am I allowed to do that?

No. Apparently not. I have to cover up. I have to wear a sweater. No one can know that I pee.

How about you? Are you ashamed?

The news is full of those kidnapped boys in Missouri who’ve been rescued. Michael Devlin, the pervert -- come on, we know what’s what -- who had them was manager of a pizza parlor, and worked nights at a funeral home. This is what the authorities need to do, now: they need to dig up every coffin that went through that funeral parlor, looking for extra bodies in the box.

Come into my parlor, said the spider to the fly. Laddie bug, laddie bug, fly away home.

Those boys have a lifetime, to get over a lifetime of shame. And they were just victims.

I'm a little bit embarassed about my body. How perfect do I have to be? But it's not that. I'm barely allowed to have a body.

Do you think this is a badly organized piece of writing? I'm just playing with you.

But you didn't answer the question. What are you ashamed of. I tell you so much. You tell me nothing.


J

New Tricks

Young A got my back today and just about finished the old man. I am of two minds about this. In the past year and a half, only one white belt ever got me more than once -- C (and until he got his blue belt two weeks ago -- same day as me -- he was the Gracie World Champion of White Belts ... for real). I like that, what with my gigantic and well-deserved ego. I am frequently observed to declaim in a stentorian voice that no one can beat me: I am unbeatable, because I'm so good. But I will be very proud of any of the young guys, when they finally do catch me. Very proud indeed. And they will get me. I'm stronger and longer, but they're faster and more agile, and that's going to make the difference. They learn faster too -- although nowadays it's coming together pretty well in my old brain.

So I wasn't taking A very seriously. Not a disrespect thing -- really more of an allowing of opportunity for him, and consequently for me. He took the chances that I gave him, and ran with them. Good for him. It was beautiful. Why he's not a blue belt I do not know. Passed my guard, took my side, and pow, he was on my back locking in a pretty tight choke. If he'd pulled back my head -- checking the fever, we call it -- he'd have done it. Instead he tried to stretch me out. Well, I've got six inches on him, and twenty pounds, and I'm a pretty tough old piece of leather, for all that I pretend otherwise. Discomfort isn't going to do it. I was tempted to tell him at the time. But that would have been giving it to him. He has to take it from me.

I managed to pull out of it. He needed a break -- it's hard work, holding the back -- and the second round ended quick. Got him into a triangle and finished it. Had to be serious, that time.

Use what you've got, eh? I've got strength. My whole game is keep them close. When they figure out how to keep distance, I'm in for it. K, the purple belt, knows it. I do pretty well against R, the other purple belt. He lets me stay close. Must be his game, too. But K just runs around me -- it's like he's the second hand and I'm the minute hand. I'm like the fat kid: Hey wait for (wheeze) me guys -- not so (gasp) fast! On the other hand, I'm learning to be more aggressive. Grrr. Watch out, when I finally figure out how to turn it on at will.

That's what it's about. The challenge. A is a challenge, now. And it was a whole different Jack, that second time. Focused and full of intent. I like that Jack. Hope to see more of him. If we do, look out, fellas. This old dog bites.


J

Silent Night

Christmas Eve was the big night when I was a kid. That's when Scandinavians open presents. Christmas morning meant nothing to me. Now, none of it means anything. I don't know that I've ever in my life said "merry Christmas."

I knocked around all day today with nothing to do. Doesn't seem right to work. I don't watch TV. It appears I stopped having friends years ago. My family is all grown and gone, or just gone. Church? Long story.

That other family of mine, the old one -- well, I guess you might say I've outgrown it. Haven't seen my father in twelve or thirteen years. He's just in the next valley, but I don't need the pain. My brothers are just people who knew me when I was small and vulnerable. My mother's normal. But I'm not. So I have no plans for Christmas.

My son called me this morning. My son, in Iraq ... haven't you been paying attention? You can't just drop in on the middle and expect to understand. Woke me from my busy, vivid and bizarre dreams. What do I dream? As much to ask me what my son and I talked about. I've heard there's a difference between sleeping and waking. I think the difference is mostly in the way we remember. He's well, my boy. He can tear decks of cards in two. He bends nails. I'm sure I didn't dream that.

There’s a reason for it, of course -- this holiday restlessness. When we find ourselves alone on such dates, it should be a reminder, and a warning. Life is fleeting, and solitude is an arid place in the soul. Wilderness is for coming out of, eventually. When some people are wrapped in light and warmth and the comfortable embrace of their mates, and others stand like a lone pine on the windswept hilltop -- well, not all cries are from the wind. We should do what we can, then, to find companionship and friendship and love.

Can I come over to your place?

At lunchtime when I was little, I didn't want to sit next to the kids I liked, because then they'd know I liked them. How did I ever get married. No wonder it didn't last.

My ego is too big for me to feel like a goldfish in a bowl -- alone among alien species. I watch the world from the outside. Dry land. Mustn't get wet. Might drown. Someone might think I like them.

What do you suppose? Do you think it was Christmas when God said of Adam that it was not good for a man to be alone? In the context of holiday loneliness, "silent night" becomes chilliing and ominous.

I was wrong, though, when I said I have no plans for Christmas. I think I'll roll. When does it start? Eleven? Eleven-thirty? Hadn't thought I would, but I'm not aching the way I used to, and I'm starting to think I should roll with people I don't know so well. Different games will make me do different things.

Afterwards, maybe I’ll go to Coco’s and try some of their “signature harvest pies.” I’m told they’re delicious. I’ve heard bad things about Denny’s.


J

Jack, Version 2.0

Got my blue belt today. About freakin time. I'm so good. Nobody can beat me. I'm unbeatable. Cuz I'm so good. How good? This good. You like? No, it's not me. ... Um ... Wait... Okay, yes. Yes, it is me. I don't know why I said it wasn't. Just modest I guess. But that's how good I am at rolling. I'm sure of it. Could I be wrong? If I could be wrong about this, I could be wrong about anything. It's unthinkable. Ridiculous. Just ridiculous.

The way it works is we're rolling around and R, the head instructor, gets everyone's attention and then announces a promotion. I came a bit later this morning, and two fellas, C and C, had already gotten their blue belts. Well. These are guys that I do pretty well against. So I had a while to examine my emotions. None, really. When R called again for attention, it was no surprise. But no emotion. Purely intellectual.

It's not that I don't care. It's not about indifference. It's like a distance run. The five mile mark is a milestone, but, frankly, so what? Purely symbolic. Better than four, not so good as six, but fundamentally arbitrary. It's nice to be acknowledged, but not every athlete strives for crowns that will wilt and fade, if you take my meaning. So I smiled, and it was sincere, but it was more about the kindness and happiness of my companions, than about the belt itself. And I said thank you, and meant it, to each of the fellas. That's a sort of emotion. But it wasn't about the belt.

Which was overdue, frankly. But that was good, because it became clear even to me that I was ready. My length of bone gives me a real advantage, and I wouldn't have wanted that to be the reason. But by now I have a fundamental skill base, and that's what counts. And because it is overdue, it's easier to take for granted: I earned it, and it's mine.

I liked being able to say that I was just a poor little white belt. No responsibility. No expectations of me. Just rolling. Now, one might expect, there's a bit of pressure to perform. But I don't feel that pressure. In fact, these past few weeks I've been taking more chances, putting myself in danger, trying new things. That had been really hard to do. It's one of the reasons I've worked so hard -- I don't really need an ass-kicking skill. I'm a peaceful guy, and I have no respect for brawling. But the personal challenge, the stretching of my inhibitions, the personal growth -- these things matter.

It's not that I felt self-conscious, when I started. I felt like I didn't belong. It was a whole set of behaviours that I'd never been a part of -- direct confrontation and handslapping and so on. It wasn't me. Then again, having a normal conversation isn't me. So I knew I ought to get used to it. Now I am. It took a year and a half. It took that long. I'm letting my guard down a bit -- as it were.

A promotion, with some fellas, acts as a sort of official permission to be better. I expect I'll be getting better, but I think it will be due to internal changes, and won't have much to do with the belt. That's my theory, based on what I'm observing in myself. I'm not all that subject to the placebo effect. I've been becoming more confident, more aggressive, calmer, more relaxed, less concerned that I might get submitted. That's all internal stuff.

But I had been thinking that I'd have to get serious after I was promoted -- serious in the sense of taking notes and watching instructionals and whatnot. It feels like a responsibility. I'm just not interested in getting all gung ho into the pro sport aspects, but I can't remain so detached anymore. Now I'll have to devote some off-mat time to BJJ. I'd been using it as a way of not thinking. Now I'll have to start thinking about it, and studying, rather than just learning. No sacrifice, really. There was a time when I was a man of many responsibilities. No great burden to pick up this small load. (Did I ever tell you? When I was working on my MS, I was the single father of a little boy, taking a double load of course work, making the Dean's List, and working full time. The only hard thing was scheduling. It was easy. Don't hate me for being beautiful.)

Odd, though, how I had no emotion. Most people seem to care. Apparently I have internal resources.

Okay. I cried like a little girl in a pink dress. I don't know why I said I had no emotions.


J

My Saturday Morning

I competed today, in my sport. First time. I've said before what it is. Haven't you been paying attention? No, of course not. Why should you? What could I possibly have to say? Sheesh. Brazilian Jiu Jitsu. Sheesh.

How'd I do? Maybe I won't tell you. How'd you like that? -- since you can't even be bothered to remember the name of my sport, which is "Brazilian Jiu Jitsu."

I only found out about the competition on Tuesday. I like lots of notice. Hmm. Is that clear? I do like lots of attention, but the "notice" I meant was forewarning ... advance time-notification. Get it? Is that clear now? "Brazilian Jiu Jitsu." I don't like new things. New things are bad. Don't argue with me about this. I'm right. And even if I'm not, I'll never be convinced of it. So it wasn't enough time for me to get comfortable with the idea. I like to brood. I find it's a very healthy thing to do. And it makes people think I'm smart -- whereas in reality I'm quite shallow. But I'll never admit that, even to myself.

Not enough time, then. I'm a huge believer in preparation. Wednesday we practiced take-downs, which I virtually never do. But competitions start standing, so it's gotta be done. Very hard on the knees -- and I've got a bad knee, souvenir from highschool days. No, I'm not feeling sorry for myself. Look, pal, if you want me to get sarcastic with you, just keep it up. It can get ugly, fast -- and I was born ugly. No, wait ...

I didn't know how to eat, for a competition. My diet is really superb, but competition is something different. I ended up eating very little on Thursday, and nothing at all on Friday. You think I'm nuts? Nuts to you, buddy. I didn't say I didn't take in nutrition, I said I didn't eat. But why should you bother to notice? -- what with your being so important and busy and too important to remember petty little things like, oh say, the name "Brazilian Jiu Jitsu." I make the most nutritious berry/fruit smoothy ever -- blue and black and raspberries, cherries and strawberries, a few cranberries, mango and pineapple and kiwi -- a scoop of protein powder, a splash of flaxseed oil, some coconut oil. It is virtually perfect nutrition. No hunger at all. In almost everyone, hunger is not about calories, but about nutrients. If you've got, say, 10 extra pounds of fat? -- that's easily something between two and three weeks worth of calories stored up. Mate, trust me: you're not eating for the calories. The lipids fit into satiation receptors in the brain, so you don't (necessarily) feel hunger. I didn't. At all. The berries are nothing but little nutrient bombs. The protein powder is just a safety net, since I'm doing a lot of exercise, which creates an extraordinary stress. So I had superb nutrition, and I wasn't full of a lot of solid waste if you get my meaning. You do get my meaning, right? Sometimes I think I'm too subtle. "Brazilian Jiu Jitsu."

This morning, then, I got there early. Couldn't find a toy store (they wanted a toy -- figure it out, genius) so I had to drive all over for something that would do. Still got there on time. For the "Brazilian Jiu Jitsu," remember? None of my peeps showed up until an hour later. Sup wit' dat? To me ten o'clock means ten o'clock. Then a lot of waiting around.

Wasn't nervous at all. A little antsy to get going, but no nerves whatsoever. Loosened up, did my ridiculous rolls (they get rid of the oldman ache that I have to live with) and then just waited. You'd think I'd have some feelings. Nope. Odd. But that's how I am. Under pressure, I'm cold. My son's the same way. I think it's a good way to be.

C won both of his matches. K won all three of his -- I think it was three ... but I really only care about myself, so I can't be bothered to remember. J won one of his two -- he's a really big guy, and I don't mean tall, so we were pleased to see him pull it out.

Yep.

That's about it, then.

Some of the fellas came just to watch. Give us support. That was nice. Group picture with the fellow who ran it. I hear he's famous. World class competitor. Nice guy. Brother of the head instructor at the place I train at. Cameras sure are fancy nowadays. I still have flashbulbs. Couple of the guys invited me to McDonalds. It was a joke. Guess they think they're too good for me. Drove home. Went to the Y and ran.

Yep. That's about it.

What? Oh, how'd I do? Well, I guess I did alright, considering my advanced age, and that I didn't have much prep time, and the fact that I don't do takedowns, and that I'm this freaky pale vegetarian.

I tore through them like a wolf through sheep.



J

Bothers

There's something on my mind. Personal. Not very personal. Just personal. It's not that I'm irritated. Not depressed. But something has been bothering me. As those who are familiar with these pages will know, I have my little sport that I do. I give a fair amount of time to it each week, but I pretty much leave it, when I leave it. I seem to have brought it home, tonight.

I got tapped out, decisively, twice, today. Because I'm longer than anyone else, and stronger than is entirely reasonable, I have a general advantage. My skill level is not all that impressive, but because of my physical attributes I perform above my ability. Not modesty, just analysis. Anyway, I really don't get tapped out too often. I try to keep it in perspective, and remind myself that with bigger guys I'd be put in my place more often, but the cold fact is that I'm not used to submitting. Boo hoo. Poor little big man.

So both of the fellas who got me are considerably smaller than I am. One is something like five inches shorter and thirty pounds lighter, the other perhaps 8 inches shorter and twenty pounds lighter. They're both much more skilled than I am. But I'm bigger, so I can often avoid getting tapped by the first, and pretty much hold my own with the second. I've got this in perspective, and it's no big deal if I get beat. So what's the bother?

There I was, home, doing whatever it is that I do at home, and something, something was bothering me. Getting tapped? No. I wanted to go again. I wasn't done rolling. But they were. So there I am, all competitive feeling, and no one to roll with. Grr. Can't blame them. It's pretty grueling, whichever way it goes. They're all younger and faster and more mobile than I am, but for a vegetarian I'm not a softy. I didn't entirely suck in gymnastics, back when Ford was president. I've forgotten everything, and I'm about as flexible as the Tin Woodman, but not everything was lost, apparently, and some of it is coming back ... like the Valley of Dry Bones.

So rolling with me is tough. But it's not any tougher for them, than for me. I do bear it in mind when I outweigh someone, and I don't put all my weight on them. And their greater skill has to count for something. So we're both working hard. I'm stronger, they're faster. I'm longer, they're more skilled. Evens out, right? And I'm way too old to be doing what I'm doing. No, not old, but old for this. And yeah, mate, it makes a huge difference. Gigantically huge. I am not the man I used to be. I ache like I've been trampled by rhinoceri. It never used to be like that. And they're in their prime. So what's up with that, huh? Rhinoceri are very fierce, you know. More human fatalities are caused by rhinoceri attack than by cancer and heart disease. It is sacred in India, where large herds of rhinoceri roam unmolested through the village streets, often entering cafes and attacking diners. Did you know an elephant's heart weighs in excess of 500 pounds and beats once every thirty minutes? Every day they have bowel movements that weigh between ten and twelve tons. They can't stop swimming or they die. Isn't that interesting? And lions can ejaculate 17 times in six minutes. Reminds me of my college days. Gee I'm smart.

I offer all this to demonstrate that ... well, I don't know why I offered it. I seem to have forgotten my point.

But I was just thinking. Some of the fellas were joking about a gay move. Gay. "Would you do that gay move to save your son?" And the other fella, childless, said, "I'd let him die." A joke. And I was sitting here thinking about what I have done, to save my boys. I took a lot of pain into myself, to save them. Didn't turn out as brightly as I might have hoped. The scary thing, for me, is that I would do it again. Hoping, hoping it would turn out differently. Madness, I know. I can give up on myself, but I couldn't give up on them. It isn't the pain that makes us give up. It's the futility.

Ho hum.

I'd like to be done, though, when I leave. I'd like to have rolled as much as I want to roll. I'd like to leave it all on the mat, and take none of it home with me. Especially if I get tapped. That's when I need to roll even more. It seems that I have to get beat before I start getting competitive -- or maybe I mean aggressive. That's not a good thing, is it. At least it's not futile. Not all beatings are permanent.

My son left me a message this morning. He's heading into a hot area. I save his messages. He said the line for the phone was hours long. That doesn't seem right.

Maybe that was what was bothering me.

Now I'm bothered again.



J

How Do You Choke a Man Who Has No Neck?

Nope, just don't feel like saying anything today. I do have something percolating, but couldn't be bothered. So I won't talk about anything. Or rather, I'll talk about nothing. What did I do today? Not nothing, mind you. I got up, early for me, and went to my sport. On a Saturday, mind you. Haven't done that before, first because I'd have to get up early for me, and also because I do it five days a week, and six just seems like too much. But seven wouldn't be enough. Sometimes I plot about how I could do it twice a day, but I'd have to get up early for me, and rearrange my schedule, and that's too much bother.

I've said what it is before, you know. You obviously haven't been paying attention. I'm not writing all this for my health. It's for you. A little gratitude wouldn't be misplaced. Sheesh. BJJ. Don't know what that is? Man are you out of it. I feel sorry for you. You're just not a happening dude, is all. BJJ.

So today I rolled with a big dude, 70, 75 pounds heavier than me. I gave him a hard time. Then he gave me a hard time. But nothing definite. My head is two inches longer, though. Gotta get it re-blocked. I was sitting here pondering how to handle him, and I figured out that I have to rely less on strength and more on speed. I'm 47. I don't have a lot of speed left. A little, for a while. Not a lot. But I think that's it. I have to play a different game with him. With him I'm thinking I need distance. Oh. It's so tiring. Why can't it just be easy.

Did I tell you why I started to roll? My son got into it, and recommended it to me. In itself that would be insufficient, given the investment of time and, even more, pain. But then I realized that he would be growing farther and farther away from me. He's getting a whole set of life experiences that I have no idea about. I figured this would give us a commonality, beyond the father/son thing. Rolling, for me, in a very real way, is a means of keeping a link with my boy.

Of course that doesn't account for why I do it five times a week, and this week six. I realized after a couple of months that my poor gray brain wasn't going to just suck it up. Thirty years of no complex motor learning didn't hone my cerebelum into the Computer of Death I might have hoped. It just takes a lot of mat time, for the axons to fatten and the dentrites to grow. I've said it before. Little girls talk. Little boys find some grass and wrestle. It's the most direct form of competiton there is. Everything else, from business, to letters-to-the-editor writing, to boxing, is less direct. If you haven't done it, you may not get that. Ask yourself how monkeys fight and you'll have an insight. We don't bite, mind you... But it's necessary for masculine mental health.

So that's what I was sitting here thinking about. How to choke a man with no neck. He's like a muscular Humpty Dumpty. Is that a belt, or a collar.

There. I've managed to talk for a while, without saying anything. Now I know how normal people feel.



J