Many years ago, the Nordic Warrior Queen and I had the notion to take up a sport. This would have been some time shortly after the second Rocky movie; maybe it was all that sweaty running, punching, and weight lifting that got us motivated to do something extra with these frail machines we call the human body.
Despite our being fans of Sylvester Stallone, boxing didn’t seem to be our thing. There was too much pain involved, not to mention the possibility of broken noses and tooth loss. Ball sports…I don’t think so. We were Minnesotans, so we could have taken up hockey or ice skating I suppose, but I don’t much like the cold. So what to do?
And then one afternoon I saw an ad in the local paper offering free introductory lessons at Karate America. Yes, karate: that was it! We would become martial artists, and become masters of an artistic and ancient tradition. Perfect! I enrolled us at once.
The next Saturday morning, my young bride and I found ourselves in a large room filled with padded floors, kick bags, and various sorts of athletic equipment. Apparently, the newspaper ad had received overwhelming response, because the room was jammed with several dozen people of all shapes and sizes – fat people, skinny people, old and young people. There was even a middle-aged fellow in a wheel chair, and I was busy trying to figure out how he would launch a crushing death-kick from the sad confines of his chair when the instructor walked into the room.
The sensei, or karate master, had a commanding presence. While not particularly imposing physically, you could tell just by looking at him not to mess with the guy. All eyes were on him as he walked us through some basic self-defense moves and explained the course and what we would get out of a commitment to Tae-Kwon-Do. At the end, he looked us in the eye, and with a stern warning said “karate is not for everyone.”
We were hooked. This was surely what we’d been put on earth to do. Without a second thought, we signed up for a lifetime membership. We had it all planned out – so many hours per day, so many hours per week, and we’d be black belts within a few short years. And when we had kids, we’d get them involved as well. It would be a family thing.
We learned how to execute round-kicks, side-kicks, sweeps, blocks, elbow strikes and shoulder locks. We stretched and lifted and exercised, practicing our complex battle-like maneuvers until we were sore from head to toe. Our goal was to be a pair of complete and total bad asses.
We almost made it. Diane once impressed a group of people at a Pink Floyd concert when she back-fisted some guy trying to put the moves on her as she stood in line for the women’s toilet. This was the first warning that she would one day be the Nordic Warrior Queen. And I once…well, I never scared anybody.
We were human. Eventually, life interfered, and our karate lessons became farther and farther apart until one day we quit altogether. Over the years, we tried to get it going again (we had a lifetime membership, after all), but somehow we never went back.
Now, at forty-eight, I’d much rather drink a beer, read a book, or share some of my profound wisdom on Mr. Ass than try to lift my foot over my head or learn the fine art of striking somebody in the groin.
I explain all this because today we celebrate that romantic holiday named Valentine’s Day. It’s our 32nd. Wow. But what does karate have to do with Valentine’s Day, you ask?
Well, it’s like this: way back then, I sometimes had a hard time getting my wife to go to karate. She was tired, or she had a headache, or she was busy with something more important. But once I’d convinced her, she enjoyed herself thoroughly, and sometimes even thanked me after for bringing her there. And she always told me we should do that more often.
And now, after more than thirty-two years together, sex is starting to be just like those karate lessons. I have a hell of a time getting her there, but once she agrees to go, she usually thanks me afterwards. And she always tells me we should do that more often.
Happy Valentine’s Day, Diane. I love you.
I’m speechless once more!