I just got a facebook friend request from Chs Ninetyone.
What kind of name is Chs? I thought? Was Chris typing really fast?
Then I said his last name out loud.
“Ninety One.”
Like Nineteen Ninety-One.
The year I graduated from high school.
Oh. Not Chs. C.H.S.
Holy crap. They must be preparing for my twenty year reunion.
How the hell have almost twenty years passed since I graduated from high school? I’m still young-ish. I still get I.D.ed occasionally. Twenty year reunion. That just seems surreal.
I suppose I am okay with it. I have done a lot in the last nineteen years, but somehow this snuck up on me. I guess I just thought I would be much older than this when my 20th reunion rolled around.
I explained to him what a liberty spikes were and what a mohawk was.
“You know your Dad used to have a mohawk. A purple one.”
“No he didn’t. He had a purple head?”
“No, honey, just his hair was purple. His head was regular color. He used to have a nose ring too.” I said. ” A Bull Ring, like this” and I demonstrated what a bull ring looks like.
And my five year old son said “That is so old fashioned.”
Well, I was tricked into signing up for Tae Kwon Do.
Let me back up a little bit.
My five year old son has been dying to take Tae Kwon Do ever since he found out that his best friend at preschool was taking it. I finally got around to signing him up for it a couple of weeks ago.
There was a special where you got your first four lessons and a do-bok (that is how you say little white outfit in Korean) for $79. It isn’t cheap, but he was all about it and my husband and I both thought he would get a lot out of it especially in the area of body control.
You know how little boys are always running in to things.
After two lessons (which he adored) his twin sister decided that she might like it too. So I signed her up.
Last Tuesday I took them in for his fourth lesson and her second lesson. Before the class even started I was whisked in to the office where the Master sat – not one of the underling masters but The Master, the main man, the guy that owns the joint.
It was time for the hard sell.
I don’t have the exact figures but signing the two of them up for a year came to somewhere around one million dollars.
Okay, it was significantly less than one million but also significantly more than I had in my bank account. In fact, thinking about it makes me want to vomit, but I knew it was the right thing to do. Both children love it, it is marvelous exercise and a lot of their friends from school are in there.
Then The Master says to me “What about you?”
I am thinking: There is no fucking way. There are like four other adults here in the kids classes and they all look like gigantic tool bags.The last thing I need to do is spend another $800 to look like an asshole.
My subconscious has a filthy mouth.
I am saying “No. I really can’t afford it.”
Then The Master drops the bomb. “I will give you one year for free if you take the class with the children. It helps them learn at home and stay involved.”
Oh Shit. I think. How can I turn down a year of free Tae Kwon Do? This would actually give me something to write about on Loser Moms.
The Master said that he would give me the free year, but I actually had to show up. If I didn’t actually take the classes he was going to charge me.
So I said yes.
But I was scared.
Really. I didn’t want to do it. My kids were through the roof excited, but I was very apprehensive.
I didn’t want to look like an idiot.
What if I sucked at it?
What if it was hard?
What if all of the five year olds were better than me?
But I had committed to this.
So yesterday I had my first lesson. It was awkward. I had no idea what the lady was saying. Some other parents I knew were there watching their children. But when we broke up in to groups I knew everybody in my group. It was me, Ian (5), Claudia (5), Paige (5) and Emma (6).
I think I probably did look like a tool, but it was kind of fun.
And I wasn’t too bad at it.
And Emma’s mom was really nice about it. She gave me a thumbs up and everything.
So yeah.
My name is Sarah and I am a white belt in Tae Kwon Do.
Yesterday I told Twitter that Claudia loved grindcore.
I wasn’t just making it up either. We were making her a Pandora playlist. She wanted to thumbs up Children of Bodom and Amon Amarth.
When I told Gabe this story he said that those bands weren’t grindcore, maybe death core or black metal, but not grindcore.
At this point in the story I need to back up a few weeks. Gabe and I were having an argument about which one of us was more metal.
In our defense we had just been to three wine tastings, so it wasn’t like we just talk about this all of the time. Well, okay, maybe we do, but in this particular case we had been in Napa all day drinking wine.
We called the children and had a family vote. The vote was ‘Who in this family is the most metal?”
Gabe voted for Gabe.
Ian voted for Ian.
I voted for myself.
Claudia voted for Ian, Claudia and Daddy.
This vote would make Gabe and Ian tied for the most metal and me and the girl who has both Barbies and Polly Pockets on her Christmas list tied for least metal.
I skipped my Sophomore homecoming dance to go to a Sepultura show. I sang on an Iced Earth album. I’ve been to Morbid Angel’s house. I grew up in Tampa! How could I possibly be the least metal person in any family?
But as I found myself reading the wiki for grindcore I kind of wanted to cry because a truly metal person wouldn’t need to google a wiki (which would be a fantastic name for a disco band) to distinguish between grindcore and deathcore. Would they?
Twice this week people have told me how young I look.
First was my new stylist. She asked me if I was in school.
I looked at her like she had ten heads and I am pretty sure I said :No, I am a grown-up, but thank you for saying that.”
Then today the guy that was trying to sell me a new garbage service wanted to talk to my Mom. (Which he totally could have done if he was here last week, but I am still in charge of the major garbage decisions at my house. She can’t stop me even when she is visiting.)
I was feeling pretty youthful.
I was trying to figure out what is working in my favor this week? Did I lose weight? Is it my new haircut? Is it not wearing any makeup? Is it wearing dirty jeans and a ratty old sweatshirt from college?
Suddenly I understood.
I don’t look younger.
I am wearing a college sweatshirt.
See?
I’ve been wearing it for two days.
And shut up, like YOU change clothes every day!
Oh, you do?
Well goody for you.
And I don’t look any younger. People are just literate and when they read “University of Central Florida” they think I am in college.
The key to maybe not looking young, but at least getting asked if you are young is to wear a sweatshirt with a college on it.
Note: I also has a sweatshirt that bears the name and logo of the preschool the kids went to on it. No one ever asks me about that one. Apparently I cannot pass for four, but possibly 22. I am okay with that.
