Last Thursday, I broke my pinky toe in tae kwon do. I can’t seem to stop repeating this phrase because a couple of years ago this would’ve been my equivalent to saying something like “I just flew a zebra-striped unicorn to the moon”. But I did. My toe is purple and it’s broken and it happened during a particularly long and grueling session of tae kwon do.
I know I don’t seem like the athletic-type-and actually, I have a lot of evidence from my childhood to support this hypothesis—pictures of me swinging hopelessly at a baseball, nowhere near the bat, my eyes closed and everything. “Certificate(s) of Merit” from the National Association for Sport and Physical Education. No, not gold medals or special honors, but a white piece of paper stating “Caroline pretty much finished that mile-run & 100 sit-up challenge, you know, more or less”.
In fact, it wasn’t ‘til middle school that I believed I could be an athlete. I’d tried everything—baseball, tennis, soccer, flag football, biking up hills, but it usually resulted in tears. I wasn’t half bad at sailing, mostly because I could feel the wind and had basic math skills, but when I was 12, I joined the field hockey team, and until I graduated from high school, being the field hockey goalie was an essential part of my identity. My math skills helped me again here, being able to do basic estimates of where I needed to stand in order to cut of a shooters’ angle really paid off. And it didn’t hurt that the hockey helmet and giant pads essentially made me fearless against the onslaught of lithe, plaid-skirted girls from the other team. I could take a couple of them on at a time, and I would nearly always come out the vainqueur.
Our team was highly ranked senior year, and despite dislocating my kneecap early on in the season, we did pretty well. This would be the only time in my life I would be written up in the newspaper for something not-singing-related, though I was particularly miffed at one article stating that after I’d fallen to the ground during a scuffle, the ball ‘somehow managed to avoid the goal’. I preferred to think that I’d hurled myself on the ground heroically so as to create an impenetrable wall of defense. Those were, after all, my glory days.
But time carried on as it always does, and my attempts at athleticism were taken over by music theory, various odd jobs, travel, and the freedom of adulthood—not being forced by anyone to exercise for the first time in my life. A couple of years ago, however, I had the realization that I really enjoyed life, and would like to keep on living it as long as possible. Apparently one of the secrets to a long life is regular exercise, and god help me if I find out in the afterlife that this is not true…. Things started slowly with a pair of running shoes and a set of dumbbells, and have progressed to now, when I find myself strapping on a do bok twice a week.
There are a lot of things that are terrifying about tae kwon do. The fear of injury, now that I am no longer in high school and fearless behind my pads and helmet, is at the front of the pack. The fear of starting something new is right behind. But the dudes (well, mostly)—from white belted sixteen year olds, to a couple of members of France’s Olympic team are all terrifically nice and helpful. It turns out sweating, screaming, kicking and punching with other people is as good for the soul as it is for the body.
So I broke my toe on Thursday while practicing bahndae dolyra chagi (I can also count to ten in Korean now, aren’t you impressed?), and on Tuesday I was back for more. I can do pushups on my knuckles, I can pivot 180 degrees on one foot, and I’ve learned at least 5 different ways to escape or fight back if I’m ever aggressed in the street (apparently sticking your thumbs in your aggressor’s eyes is a usually good last resort). I’ve only fallen over once, which is pretty good considering my history, and while the first couple of classes were so scary I could’ve rolled into a tornado-drill style safety ball, I don’t regret for a second signing up, even if putting on a proper pair of shoes is currently cringe-inducing.
Which brings me to the moral, and the title of the story. This year I’ve signed up for tae kwon do, I’ve won a scuffle with an iphone thieving gypsy, I’ve tried particularly stinky cheese, and I’ve driven on the autobahn. I’ve sung with an orchestra comprised of 8-year old children, a love duet with one of my least favorite people on the planet (who subsequently doesn’t speak English, so no worries there), and I’ve thrown my hat in the ring for so very many scary auditions. And I have no doubt that doing these terrifying things are making me better, giving me confidence, and are, at the very least, the stuff of great stories. The first story is about how I broke my toe in tae kwon do. I’m looking forward to the next.