Peg Kerr's Journal

I'm limping today. I Did Something Bad to my knee about a month ago during a class when we were doing spin kicks. I do not like spin kicks, I do not do them well, and apparently I did not do them properly, because I've been getting a low-grade "there's something wrong here" warning every time I squatted. A pain on the left side of the right knee joint.

I have been not pleased with the weight gain of the past several months, which I attribute to eating too much due to stress, stopping bicycling because of the weather and not attending as many karate classes due to scheduling problems and depression. I had dropped pretty much all weight-lifting and stopped the 100 pushup challenge, too. I thought about it hard over the past month and decided to refocus and kick it back up a notch after the new year. I joined a boot camp team on Sparkpeople.com (5 - 30 minute cardio workouts a week and 7 - 10 minute videos working various body parts with weights), and I went back to sparring class on Saturday for the first time in quite awhile.

The sparring class went quite badly. Very, very badly, in fact. The sensei's object was for us to fight without breaks, to practice coping with exhaustion. Periodically, he'd tell us to do something like drop and do fifty pushups and fifty crunches and then get up and start fighting again. I couldn't do it without continually hyperventilating. I'd do a bout, then lose my breath, sit the next fight out, go in and start fighting again and then hyperventilate again, and sit out the next one. It was so frustrating. I knew exactly why I was doing it, too; I was tensing up and using too much energy and exhausting myself, even though I was telling myself, breathe, relax, breathe. The rounds just kept going ON and ON and ON. "Drop and do another set of pushups." Halfway through class, I started to cry, which only infuriated myself further. I hate, hate, hate it when I cry during sparring class. I wasn't crying because I was getting hit (although I was) but because of my utter frustration with the breathing problems.

But I was stubborn. It really embarrasses me and I usually quit when I get to the point I start crying, but this time I tried to push through it. I HAVE to learn how to pace myself through sparring, I HAVE to be able to increase my stamina. I HAVE to learn not to quit when it gets hard if I want to get my black belt. Everyone else was soldiering on, and I didn't want to be the one to quit. I took breaks to gulp water, wipe the tears from my face, and then would put the helmet back on and get back in. After half an hour of fighting, I turned to face yet another opponent, and my body just gave up. I swayed, overcome with dizziness, and landed down on the floor. Sensei hauled me out into the lobby and gave me water. Dammit, dammit, dammit. I tried to console myself by reflecting that I had tried very hard and was really, really stubborn to have fought as long as I had, but I was still mad and embarrassed as hell. Great. Once again, the only one in my class who apparently can't cut it.

Needless to say, I didn't stay for the kickboxing class afterwards.

On Sunday, I did about forty-five minutes of cardio, low impact aerobics, using a video I've done before. I did stretch before and after.

Today, I can barely walk. I've been icing the back of the right hamstring, but it's clear that I'm going to have to start doing the rehabilitative exercises that cloudscudding gave me again.

What am I going to do for cardio until this heals? I've been dinking around with this injury for a month, and now it's so bad I can't even walk at a cardio level. I went down into the office gym this afternoon doing my break and tried various options. I wondered if I stood on the injured leg and kicked with the good leg, whether I could get my heartbeat elevated enough, but even that hurt the injured leg too much. I tried practicing with my bo (stickfighting form), but that aggravated the knee, too. Finally, I resorted to boxing combinations (jab, punch, hook, uppercut) and horseback riding punches. Those are going to get really really old if it's the only option I've got for cardio.

I had promised myself that I'd be diligent about going back to karate with the new year, and I want to, but I don't think I'd better try sparring tonight. Am mad at/with myself for missing karate again, and very frustrated. The boot camp video for today is lower body, annoyingly, and I don't think I can do that, either.

Other suggestions for cardio with a knee injury? I can't even walk at an aerobic pace. No access to a swimming pool, so that's out, too.

Something kijjohnson said in our weekly telephone call really jumped out at me, maybe because it has the ring of truth. "You worry more than anybody I know."

I've been thinking about that statement ever since. Really, I'm quite embarrassed about it. Come on, Peg, you know that you're undermining your own health by always worrying so much. And how unnecessary it all is, really! I've been analyzing, trying to understand myself. How much of my worry is innate to my character, to the fact that I tend to be a depressive person (always seeing the glass half empty, Peg?) How much of it is integral to the structures within my marriage? Rob is adamantly NOT a worrier--and I have become, in a sense, the designated worrier of the family. It performs a function, but can slide into codependency, and really, when you look at it that way, getting off the worry hook (and maybe sticking HIM onto it) can only improve my marriage. How much of it is simply peculiar to my situation (layoff, money, some medical issues, etc.) such that any reasonable person in my position would worry the same amount?

Yes, I do worry too much. I agree. Way too much. How much can I change that? I do certain things that theoretically could help: regular exercise, including walking in sunlight, spiritual connection, antidepressants, support system. Yet I seem to be simply marinating in my own stress; my mind turns over and over on the well-worn ruts of low grade panic.

I'm sick of it.

My psychiatrist told me today that someone in my situation should be worried, yes--if I weren't, it would indicate a serious breach with reality. But the level of worry I cope with every day is so hard on me, my family, my body. There's also a part of me that thinks it's also a spiritual malaise--although I am REALLY wary of falling into the trap in which I suffered for so many years, of believing that the reason I was depressed was that I didn't have enough faith.

Still. Is it possible to change? How? I have been thinking about experimenting with meditation.

Have you managed to get a grip on worry and change yourself and the way that you deal with anxiety to the point that you think you have made a real difference in your life? What prompted the change? What did you do? How did it work for you?

What with the 100 pushup challenge, I've been thinking about the goals I have in my life, and the progress I'm making toward them. I'm a Myers-Briggs ENFJ, and the "J" means that I'm into goals, schedules, structures (unlike my husband, who in contrast is a "P" go-with-the-flow sort of guy. A frequent source of, shall we say, not seeing eye-to-eye on things in our marriage).

I like setting goals for myself. I respond well to them, for the most part. Sometimes, however, I get frustrated with myself because I am not making the progress I would like. Sometimes that is due to the goal I have in mind isn't very realistic; sometimes I sabotage myself--mildly. Sometimes real life gets in the way (i.e., Rob's job loss has been a set back in a number of different areas).

( Money Goals )

( Fitness Goals )

( Other goals )

What are some of your goals?

I'm stiff and sore all over. I've been aware lately that my weight has been creeping up, so I've given it some hard thought, contemplating what I'm willing to do to try to get myself into better shape. I'd been letting some of my healthy habits slack off. I stopped weight lifting, for example, when I had the gall bladder surgery, and I never picked it back up again. I'd stopped tracking food when I got down close to my goal weight, and so extra calories started creeping back in.

So: recommitment to healthy living. Push more vegetables into the diet, back to the weight lifting again (I did an upper body weights workout yesterday, which is why I'm so sore), back to the food tracking. I'm also trying to do the summer goals program in karate (do the form 150 times, 1500 slow kicks, 1000 push ups, etc.) I had to miss karate last night since there was a church council meeting, but I ended up at the dojo to clean it at the tail end of class. I was really bummed to see that they had been working on form. That's the class I've been pining to have for the past month--I am not crystal clear on all the folds for Zhang Do Moon, and if I'm going to be practicing my form 150 times this summer, for heaven's sakes I want to do it right.

Walkertracker.com, for recording steps if you wear a pedometer every day. Found it through SparkPeople.

I had a long talk with kijjohnson on the phone tonight about our respective exercise obsessions. If you don't follow her journal, Kij is my age, and just as I got into karate last year, she got into rock-climbing. (See, for example, this entry.) We talked about how they are both usually the sport of people younger than us, and mostly male (most of her climbing companions are guys in their 20s.) I talked to her about going to the karate tournament this weekend, and feeling just overwhelmed when I watched the grand competition in the evening, where the best of the best compete. The people who competed there were astounding; their feats seemed superhuman. I mean, I saw an eight-year old who, just standing there, did a standing back flip, landing on his feet. That was just the START of his form. It was hard, watching them, and feeling, I'm never going to be able to do anything close to that. I'd never be able to get my body in the shape I'd need to be. It's too hard, and I'm too old. It turns out, Kij has been thinking a lot about these issues, too.

"It's funny, isn't it?" she said. "Both of us have chosen pretty extreme sports, mostly done by guys half our age. Both with an element of danger."

It's true. I picked karate partly because I want to be the sort of woman who does that--who doesn't just hop on an elliptical machine to keep in shape. No, I put on a padded helmet with a wire cage over my face and get into a ring and try to whip the butt of a twenty-year old guy six inches taller than me, even though it terrifies me. She climbs on rocks with impossible handholds, knowing that every moment she could fall--same thing.

I am sure that there are many of our friends who don't entirely understand why we feel driven to do these things, but somehow we are fighting, really fighting, a rear guard action on the aging of our bodies. Trying to force our physical selves to do things that seem impossible. It reminds me a lot of the way I felt when taking ballet as a kid: as when I take karate, I was learning a physical art form with hundreds of years of history, which has a very entrenched teaching history. And I was continually frustrated then--as I am now--that my body can't physically do what I am trying to make it do. And yet, when I stop to think about it, what I can do is so much more than what my age-peers can or are willing to do.

One other thing I saw at the tournament, which put things into perspective a bit. I saw a division which was for people with severe handicaps, some physical, some mental, I think. I watched one man do his form. He was a brown belt. He was also a quadrapalegic in a wheel chair. I think he had cerebral palsy. To do his form, he hit the power stick on the chair with his partially paralyzed arm to turn it in all the various directions. And he did the arm movements (high block, low block, sudo block), as best he could, with the yells. It was fascinating to watch.

I thought about this tonight, and talked with Kij about it. As frustrating and humbling as it was for me to be there at the tournament, watching the performances of people who have practiced so hard that their forms seem superhuman, how much more frustrating for him, when the simple act of walking across the room is impossible for him? And yet there, he was, performing within the best of his capabilities. He is a brown belt. I am sure that he earned it. They don't just give those away.

Something to think about.

Okay, you know I've been complaining about the allergies and how they stopped my exercise program cold. Well, the allergies, I think, have finally, FINALLY eased off.

Which means it is time to kick the exercise program back into gear.

I've been very cautious about resuming, but today I sat myself down and gave myself a firm talking-to. I don't want to become a complete kludge; it is hard enough to feel okay about my body as it is. Time to get back to work, Peg. No excuses.

So I pulled out an often used FIRM DVD, Body Sculpt. I'm not a complete idiot. I took it slow, and I didn't attempt to do anything like what I used to do; in fact, I did quite a bit of it (like the section stepping on the tall box) without using any weights at all.

It still absolutely kicked my ass. And it's over 90 degrees in my office. I'm dripping with sweat, and my muscles are burning.

I used to be able to do this DVD. Then I quit karate and got laid low by allergies. And now, a mere six months later, I am totally decrepid. *Cries*

Still (looking hard at the holy tree), you did the damn thing, Peg. Yes, you did.

You go, girl. Sorta.

*Slithers off to dissolve in the shower.*

Mr. Betlach, uncharacteristically, ran out of things to do in the last class Thursday. He glanced at the clock and said, "I have an idea. I want each of you to do one hundred pushups."

We all stared at him, but nobody said, "Surely you jest, sir."

"Pair up. Do push ups until your arms give out. Tag off. When your partner's arms give out, tag out and start again. Keep tagging off until you reach one hundred." He waved a hand airily. "Get started."

Before I started karate, I did from-the-knees pushups, and I had to struggle to get through the twelve or so done with each rep on my weight-lifting tapes. Once I started karate, I switched to toe pushups, out of sheer determination not to look like a wimp, but we generally do only ten pushups during the warmup session.

One hundred pushups? Was he insane?

Well, how many pushups could I do, anyway?

Standing right beside me and ready to pair off with me, wouldn't you know, was Jeba, godly of body and generally silent of speech--partly because, I think, he is a bit shy, and partly because his command of English is perhaps a tad uncertain. Jeba, unlike me, has respectable pecs, and abs that won't quit. Mine couldn't wait to quit, before I even started. "I'll start," I said, smiling through gritted teeth and got down and assumed the position. On the toes. Might as well get the humiliation over with. I lowered myself, and pumped up, blowing out. I always exhale pretty noisily during pushups, and it embarrasses me, but I don't think I could do them without doing so. I fear I don't go down quite far enough, but nobody has ever reprimanded me about it, so I keep doing them that way and feeling guilty.

I finally tagged out at fifteen and got up and watched Jeba as he went down. He lowered himself down all the way and pumped fast. Damn testosterone.

I managed fifteen on the next round, too, but not the next. I got up and watched Jeba and wished he would keep lowering himself up and down like a piston so I wouldn't have to get back down there right away, but no, Jeba was tiring, too.

But he was still way ahead of me. I collapsed at forty-seven and thought, I'm not going to be able to do this. I got up and tagged off and tried stretching out my triceps. When we tagged off again, I realized that it hadn't helped. Not enough.

My last round, I collapsed, and lay there for a minute, and then got back up on my hands and toes, furious. I'm not going to make it to one hundred, but dammit, I'm not quitting, either. I risked a glance over to my left, where two women were paired up. They were quite red in the face. They were doing their pushups faster than me, but then, they were doing them from their knees.

I collapsed again. Jeba, I could see, was expecting me to tag out, but I clenched my jaw and assumed the position again.

I managed five more, up to sixty-five. I screamed as I pushed up the last one, and then my belly hit the floor again. I put my head down on the mat, dazedly, and hoped I wasn't drooling.

"Line up for the end of class," Mr. Betlach called, mercifully, and the torture was over. We bowed out, and I caught Jeba's grin toward me in the mirror.

My triceps are still burning, two whole days later, as well as my abs and obliques. Still . . . sixty-five pushups. I didn't know I had that many in me.

Maybe I'll reach one hundred next time.

I am walking wounded this morning. My arm's sore from the rabies shot. I've got cramps, and I hurt all over from trying to start my workouts again. I am really appalled at how sore I am; it shows how much I've let my general conditioning slip by thinking I could get away with just doing karate and the elliptical machine. I did a pilates workout this morning, and only managed about twenty minutes. I was doing the fricking beginners' adjustments, fer heaven's sakes.

I am such a wimp.

I could write about my reaction to the speeches at the Democratic National Convention. But I don't really feel like doing so. I was pleased, for the most part, with what I've heard, but enough ink is going to be spilled on that subject that I don't particularly feel like adding to the torrent tonight.

I could tell you about coaching the girls on the Genesis form, because they're going to test for their next belt tomorrow. Actually, I'm not entirely sure they are going to pass, because for some inexplicable reason, their classes didn't include the form instruction this past month until the very last lesson before the test this Friday, so we've tried to learn the form in one lesson and I've been drilling them on it since Tuesday. And it's tough: they obviously don't have all the moves down cold yet, despite our best efforts. My parents are coming to watch the test tomorrow, since they're in town, which is a cause of some excitement (my parents live in Georgia, and they've never seen the girls do karate before). But I'll give you a more complete report about all that after the test.

I was indulging in one of my habitual daydreams again today, and I realize that I've never told you about it. Once I realized that and thought about writing a post about it, I realized that this daydream is a bit odd, really, and I wondered whether you would think me really strange for indulging in it. But then I realized if you've been reading my journal for awhile, you already know that I'm rather strange.

I love to daydream about meeting Jane Austen.

For some reason, Jane Austen appears at my home, and it's my job to sort of shepherd her around for a day or two. Or if I'm lucky, for a week or more. I know who she is, of course, but she has no idea who I am. It's my job to introduce her to the life in the 21st century.

I've had more fun than you can imagine trying to picture her reactions to various things: microwave ovens. Riding in a car for the first time. Seeing an airplane. Computers. I imagine showing her the Internet, and clicking onto to www.pemberley.com and telling her, "This is a place where people from all over the world are discussing your books, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week." We could spend a weekend watching movies made from her books. ("That Mr. Colin Firth! Don't you think he is the handsomest man you've ever seen?") I want to give her a copy of Lord of the Rings and get her opinion after she's read it. I imagine her watching me exercise and gasping in horror at the shocking costumes worn by those brazen hussies on the FIRM DVD. Showing their legs! And their stomachs, and their -- no, she can't even say it. Where are her smelling salts?

I don't know why I keep embroidering on this daydream. I've thought of being Shakespeare's buddy for a day, but that doesn't have the same appeal. Perhaps because he's a guy, or an actor? As if once I showed him the Guthrie Theater, he'd disappear backstage and spend the rest of the visit ignoring me and talking shop with other actors. No, I keep returning to Miss Austen. (I can never imagine calling her "Jane." I want her to feel comfortable, so I address her as "Miss Austen." I imagine she would also be shocked because my children address my next door neighbor by her first name, or as Miss Austen would put it, her Christian name.)

I think I would prefer to spend the time with Miss Austen because I've always been fascinated by her observant eye and needle wit, and I can't help but wonder how they would manifest themselves if she turned her full attention to my life, to my foibles and my struggles (not that Shakespeare didn't have an observant eye and needle wit himself, but for some reason that I can't quite pin down, I've just always been more curious about her reaction). Would Miss Austen be kind? No, I rather think she would not. It pains me a little to say it, but as eager as I am to receive her good opinion, I fear she would be reluctant to give it to me. First of all, I work for a living, and am therefore not quite of her class. How to explain to her that in the time and place that I live, there are no servants for most people; we have all manner of labor saving devices, but that most people do work, and do not think any less of each other for doing so? I also have the bad taste to live in America, rather than dear old England.

I also fear my habit of wearing jeans would astonish and horrify her.

But what bothers me the most is the thought that I would not feel comfortable giving her my own books to read. Emerald House Rising--well, perhaps. She would perhaps be kind to someone else's first effort.

But I could never explain The Wild Swans to her. The relationship between Elias and Sean would, I think, be beyond what a 19th century clergyman's daughter would think proper to read about.

Could she be open to it? If I attempted to explain what the book was about before handing it to her to read, would she be brave enough to try it? What would she think about telemarketing calls and televangelists and light rail and skyscrapers? Would she think I was doing a good job raising my children?

I hope that there might be some small part of her that might learn to like me. Once she got over the shock of my short hair and my wardrobe, and the fact that I drove in a strange metal contraption every day and left my children with others so that I could earn my living. I would hope that if anyone could survive the jolt of being transported two centuries beyond her own time, it might be Miss Austen.

Who knows? Perhaps she might discover that she likes lifting weights or reading Tolkien herself, now that she's tried them.