I have a close friend whom I have known for almost ten years. We share all and have many similar interests. Sometimes, though, we can't reconcile the other's point of view with our own. I saw him last week, maybe the week before, and he told me he reads this blog every now and then. When I started it, I did say that it would more than likely contain updates from my entire life (as opposed to my jiu jitsu life), and I haven't really followed up with that much. That has been a conscious decision. I find that this space works much better as an outlet when it has a constant theme. Otherwise, this is nothing more than a public journal. And I don't need that. I also told this friend that he should come try class with me sometime. He's an athletic guy, really competitive, debilitatingly smart--it should be a perfect fit. Of course, he refuses. Doesn't understand why fighting and getting hurt (from time to time) could possibly be fun or fulfilling.
Of course, this is a perfect reflection of our other fundamental disagreement: the dentist. I loathe the dentist, today a bit more than normal. My dear friend, though, is never as comfortable anywhere as he is when he visits the dentist. He loves the harsh plastic cover on the awkwardly reclining chair, the cold metal stabby things on his gums, the sterile and heartless feeling of the hallways and offices.
I am right now sitting on the chaise with Buster splayed out next to me and a leaking sore on the left side of my mouth where my wisdom tooth sat until four hours ago. It's gone, and what a bastard of a process it was. So now I have a new variety of pain pills to add to my collection. Haven't taken any yet, I'm kind of curious how long I can hold out. (A bit more curious how long I'll be able to go without food, but that's another fight entirely.) So yes. Dentists suck. As I was laying there with what I'm certain were rusty pliers and crowbars sticking out of my mouth (literally, I heard him ask for the forceps, as though the baby was breached), a few things fought their way through the nitrous haze and crossed my mind. 1) The way I was crossing my legs and squeezing them in sheer terror, anyone in my guard would have been pulverized. 2) Every now and then, I would remind myself to just relax and breathe and that it would all be over soon and I'd be able to leave, no different from being stuck in a wrestler's side control and looking for an opening. Of course, I was kind of stoned on nitrous, so maybe the connection isn't as clear as it was in the fog, but it still makes a modicum of sense to me.
Of course, the balance is that I can't train now until Monday or Tuesday. So there goes the weekend. Instead, I'll be on a liquid-ish diet and camped out on couches and in front of my books. If all this rust makes me slow and forgetful, I'm going to get angry at my body.
Tournament on October 9. With at least one full week of training, I'm in. Count it. I'll tape any matches and post them in short order.