Volleyball and Other Hobbies I Tried to Quit

From soccer, to hip hop dance, to horseback riding, if I could sum up my adolescence in a few words, I'd say that I've always been a quitter.

It sounds harsh, but the internet is a place for honesty (and really weird memes). And if I'm being honest, I have a knack for quitting new hobbies.

Here's how it inevitably happens:

• I try a thing.
• I like the thing a lot. 
• I promise I'll come again.
• I think that this thing could be my thing. I imagine myself doing this thing when I'm 80 years old.
• I tell everyone how much I love doing the thing.
• I go again.
• I go another time.
• I think of something else I could be doing in that time (like writing hit songs for my new album, or working on my self-published magazine, or eating pasta sauce out of a jar while reading Anna Karenina).
• I make up an excuse for why I can't go to the thing this week.
• I make up another excuse for why I can't go to the thing this week.
• I quit the thing.

I don't think there's anything wrong with this pattern really.

I remind myself that I am a social butterfly, a lone wolf and a quirky performance artist all rolled into one weird, winged, howling animal-person.

I tell myself that I can't adhere to a schedule. I tell myself that I am far more mysterious when I don't show up to things. 

Basically, I just tell myself a lot of excuses so that I can stay home, read Anna Karenina and eat pasta sauce out of a jar.

But now that I'm out of college, these excuses don't really fly anymore. If I don't have places to go and things to do after work, I end up feeling like I wasted the day.

At best, it's uncomfortable, and at worst, it's depressing. 

So what's a girl to do? Try a couple of different hobbies until one sticks?

That would be good-- except that in Japan it's practically impossible to try something once without people thinking you're a member for life.

I mean, I guess it makes sense. I live in a small town. My business is everyone's business.

It's basically like living in Gilmore Girls except when people here talk fast and make obscure references, I have no idea what they're saying. 

But still. 

When I first arrived here, I somehow joined an elderly persons' volleyball club. It's a long, weird story, as usual.

I loved playing with them on Tuesday nights-- for a few months. We laughed, we danced, I struggled to speak Japanese in a way that wasn't 100% wrong.

But after awhile, I got bored and wanted to quit.

I don't think I'm really a sports person. Besides, one very old man was always standing entirely too close to me. So I had to come up with a no-risk quitting scheme.

It required some forethought. Quitting here was a lot more of a challenge than it was back when I wanted to stop going to funky disco kickboxing in high school.

I couldn't just tell my mom that I had homework to do.  

All my volleyball pals were running into me at the grocery store, every day, asking me why I hadn't come to volleyball the week before.

Was I sick? Was I out of town? Did I get a new boyfriend?

The answer to that last one was yes, but his general existence wasn't really why I hadn't been showing up.

A couple of months went by. I'd show up once in awhile. I'd try to enjoy myself while I was there, though I had lost all interest in playing volleyball. Sometimes, I'd even go so far as to repeat the words, "you are currently playing volleyball" over and over in my head. I thought it might help to keep me from daydreaming.

The two hour practice would come to an end, and I'd always promise I'd come again the next week.

I started to dread Tuesdays. I wanted out and I wanted out ASAP.

However, when my pushover-ness led me to try a new hobby, I came up with a plan to wash the old one right out of my hair.

A few months ago, a few of my students told me that they really wanted me to go to their calligraphy class. The kids even went so far as to corner me in the hallway with a handwritten map and ask me to promise that I'd come.

So I showed up one fateful Monday, assuming it would be a one time thing.

I left the classroom that day promising I'd come back the next week, secretly cursing myself for getting involved with another hobby when I still couldn't get volleyball out of my schedule.

"Calligraphy is fun!" said my brain.

"Calligraphy is a commitment," replied my intimacy issues.

Perhaps I was torn about the inclusion of a new activity into my week; however, I wasn't torn about the fact that my new hobby finally gave me an excuse to quit volleyball.

Next time I ran into my volleyball friends at the grocery store, I told them that I wasn't going anymore because I had calligraphy at the same time (which was a lie, but a believable one). They nodded and expressed remorse to not be seeing me anymore.

I considered my volleyball woes to be over and done with.

Until I went to calligraphy, where my teacher informed me that she was quite close with the people on my volleyball team. Apparently, they had compared notes about my whereabouts on Tuesday nights. My ruse was unsuccessful. 

It was awkward. I just kind of looked sheepish and said, "I've been... busy..."

It's true. Reading Anna Karenina is practically a full time job.

10 Totally Normal Exchanges I've Had in Rural Japan

1.    That time when I first moved to Kadogawa, and one of my coworkers was showing me around my new office. She took me to the women’s restroom and fished a maxi-pad out of a basket. She handed it to me. Unsure of what was happening, I said, “Oh, very nice. We also use these in America.” I handed it back to her, nodding and smiling.

2.    That time when I thought I was going on a work lunch with many of my coworkers, only to discover that I was actually eating noodles with only one man. I asked him where our friends were, and he responded, “oh, they are not coming.” He showed me Youtube videos of him singing karaoke.

3.    That time when I tried to use my office’s upstairs restroom (the one with only squatting toilets), and I was stopped by a tiny janitor. She was speaking Japanese but I assumed she was saying something like, “Oh, you don’t want to use these! There are nice Western toilets for your Western bottom right downstairs. Why don’t you head down there?” With a chuckle, I tried to imply that I actually love using squatting toilets because they make me feel adventurous (in reality, I said something more like, “that toilet is okay”). I pushed past her and did my business, only to discover that she actually was trying to communicate that these toilets were currently out of order and could not flush.

4.    That time when a woman I had never met before showed up to my office and asked me about the cost of shipping several large books to Switzerland. When I told her I was from America, she said, “well, could you at least fill out this customs form for me?”

5.    That time where I wore a colorful barrette in my hair at the office, and my co-worker pointed and said, “That, in your hair. Why?”

6.    That time I went to one of my elementary schools and a tiny, adorable child came up behind me and said, “Hello English teacher! Are you a man or a woman?”

7.    That time I wore earrings that looked like fried eggs to middle school and my students told me it looked like I was wearing breasts on my ears.

8.    That time at English conversation night when I told a farmer that the name “Lauren” meant “of the Laurel leaves. You know, the ones that Roman people used to crown victors at the Olympic games.” So the next time I saw him, he brought me a four foot long branch from his Laurel tree as a gift.

9.    That time at volleyball practice when I used a Japanese word I didn’t quite understand. To try to explain the meaning of this word, one of the players mimed having intercourse with his wife, and then with another female player right afterwards. The word was “やばい” which roughly translates to “risky.”

10.  That time when my neighbor passed away, and the hospital workers were removing his things from his house. They approached me to express their condolences (in Japanese) and tell me that sometimes, people die, and life is hard, but that they were certain I would get through it.

I didn’t understand, so I told them that I was going on a trip to visit hot springs. They nodded solemnly and said, “oh yes, that’ll be great.”

Woe is Mold

Mold! Mold, mold, mold. Brave and bold. Oh mold.

It's the rainy season here in Miyazaki. And it's absolutely disgusting.

At first, I thought, "oh, how nice. The weather is warming up, things are getting greener, a little rain here and there is sort of romantic, right? I can drink a cup of tea and look out the window and sigh and feel like a heroine in a romantic French movie! Yay rainy season!"

Oh how wrong I was.

Because little did I know, rain + heat = humidity.

Not just a little humidity. A lot of humidity. We're talking 92% humidity.

And what happens when everything is humid, all the time?

Mold happens. So much mold.

My towels smell weird all the time. My shoes get wet in the rain and never dry. And two days ago, I discovered that they're also all covered in mold now.

Like, several different kinds of mold, too. My black flats have tiny brown forests of spores growing on the top. My black sandals have adopted a sort of grey fuzz along the heel. And perhaps the most fascinating of all is the thin layer of neon green sprinkles growing on my faux leather smoking slippers.

I'm horrified but I can't look away.

On Wednesday, I attempted to wipe the mold off my shoes, which actually went quite well. It came right off with one swipe of paper towel.

"That takes care of that!" I thought to myself before happily jaunting out the door.

I was so wrong.

When I woke up Thursday morning, the mold had returned.

"NO!" I screamed as I stared down at the once again moldy shoes I had cleaned so lovingly the day before. "NO, NO, NO! I ALREADY FIXED THIS PROBLEM! YOU CAN'T BE BACK!" I yelled at the mold, hoping to frighten it away.

But unlike mountain lions and other wild cats, mold is a trickier beast. You can't just make yourself larger and bang pots and pans together to get it to leave you alone. Mold shows up in your house and on your clothes and even on your bread if you're not careful.

Mold. The mountain lion of the domestic sphere.

So in a flurry of fear and general squealing, I went to the local grocery establishment on Thursday night in order to find the proper instruments with which to combat my foe.

When I made it back to my moist apartment, it was go time.

To start, $20 worth of dehumidifying beads were placed in strategic locations throughout my home. From the closets to my drawers, I made sure no dark, small, warm location went unbeaded. I scrubbed every pair of shoes I own and then placed them in the sunniest location in my living room.

I realized my air conditioner had a "dehumidify"setting (umm... really, Lauren? After allowing your shoes to undergo such devastation, you only just now realize that you have a giant dehumidifier in your living room?! Come on...) and I turned it up full blast.

I scrubbed my trash can. I scrubbed the walls of my bathroom. I scrubbed the mold off my floor. I even scrubbed myself (because it was 9 o clock, and time to take a shower).

This morning, my shoes were mold free. I felt like I had tamed the beast.

But for how long?

Brave Movinator: 5 Tips for Surviving A Big Move

Weird food. New house. Different people with different problems. Emotional roller coaster. 

These are the main ingredients of what I like to call "A Big Move." 

Speaking of which, I'm coming up on my year anniversary of living in Japan, my biggest big move. It's a strange feeling.

Sometimes I'll remember what it was like in my first month here and be simultaneously delighted and horrified by the level of enthusiasm (and confusion) I exhibited for literally everything that was Japan. Now I'm just sort of living. 

Isn't it surprising that it took me almost an entire year to get to that point?

Maybe. But maybe not.

I mean, I've had a lot of big moves in my life, and nearly all of them have left me feeling totally elated and totally destroyed. At this point, it's become a fairly predictable pattern. Living in a new place is hard-- especially within the first six months. Those months always seem to be a nightmare.

But, I feel as though the more I move around, the more accustomed I become to being one who moves. What would you call one who moves? A mover? A movestress? A movinator? That last one is probably right.

So, I thought it'd be helpful to post some of my favorite advice for dealing with the anxiety of finding yourself in a completely new place and not knowing what to do about it.

If you're applying to teach English abroad or planning to move to a new country (or even a new state!), I hope this helps you out. These little tidbits have certainly helped me deal with some major freak-outs in the past. 

Also snacks. Lots of snacks.

1. Try not to have expectations.

Every time I move to a new place, I visualize myself there, belonging there, being exactly the kind of person who has lived there her whole life. I imagine myself with tons of new, beautiful friends, twenty five pounds thinner, with a great paying job and several inches taller. I also usually am holding some sort of latte.

Between you and me, that's not a great way to walk into a potentially difficult life situation. It will leave you very disappointed (usually).

The thing is, moving is stressful. Beyond just the financial difficulties that come with a big move, moving tends to leave you without a support network (or at least, a support network that's fairly different than the one you've become accustomed to in your last home). 

So if you imagine yourself with those beautiful people and that latte, and find yourself broke and alone, wandering around in a strange new place, it can be a bit of a downer.

What's worked for me in the past is telling myself throughout the moving process that good or bad, this move is going to make my life more interesting in one way or another. Remember why you're moving in the first place when things get tough.

And if things never get tough for you, great! Count yourself very lucky!

2. Remember the 3-6-12 rule.

Give yourself three months to be irrational, six months to get settled in, and a year to make your new location feel like home.

It seems like whenever I move, I have three months of extreme highs ("I'm never leaving this perfect dreamland country!") and extreme lows ("No one in this terrible butthole country cares that I exist..."), which is followed by the six month mark where I kind of get what life is like ("It's really easy to take the bus to Fukuoka, see?"), to that magical year mark when I sort of feel like a local ("Oh, Kinoushita san owns the best vegetable shop in town!"). It's a bumpy ride, but I find that it seems to be very consistent.

However, these feelings can be very hard to handle if you're not anticipating them.

3-6-12 is a great rule to remember if you're just a few months into a big move and feel like you should be, well, happier. 

3. Say "yes" as much as possible...

I can't tell you how many weird adventures I've been on because I decided to say "yes" to odd invitations. 

For instance, a few months ago I went on a women's beauty retreat in Kadogawa and learned to "beautiful walk" and "small face massage" with forty strangers. I spoke only Japanese for two days, caught a glimpse of an endangered aquatic bird (we went bird-watching), and made really cool new friends! 

It was so strange. But the amount of satisfaction I felt for getting out of my comfort zone and handling everything made it all worthwhile.

What I've noticed is that I feel way more fulfilled when I fill my time with interesting experiences and funny stories, especially when I'm going through a big move. It makes me feel that I'm doing things I couldn't do in the place where I was before. It's a good feeling.

4. ...but don't forget to take a day off.

On the other side of the coin, it's also really easy to overbook yourself when you move to a new place because there's so much great new stuff to see and do.

"Of course I'll help with the community garden!"

"Volleyball for charity? Sign me up!"

"You want to go out drinking on a Tuesday night with your friend's ex-boyfriend, a librarian and an old war veteran named Cookie? Sounds like a blast!"

If you say yes to literally everything, sometimes you can stretch yourself a little thin.

Just be aware of yourself and your needs. If you need to skip that really great weekend trip because you haven't had a day to yourself all month, it's okay to do that. If you need to cancel on visiting friends tonight because you're practically falling asleep at work, that's okay too. 

Or if you're like me and you just need a break from speaking Japanese for a day, it's totally okay to skip calligraphy class once in awhile to get bundled up and watch Broad City in bed. 

"Calligraphy? Or raunchy lady-centric comedy?"

You're going through a lot right now. Be gentle with yourself.

5. Be true to you!

Just because you've moved to a new place doesn't mean you're a different person.

Repeat that to yourself. Then repeat it again.

If you like photography, take photographs. If you need to ride your bike to feel good, buy one and ride it. If you hate sports, but your new town is literally named Sportsville and no one does anything but play sports there, you still don't have to like sports.

I've made myself so miserable so many times by moving to a new place and completely changing myself to try to fit in. I've bought different clothes, stopped doing the things I liked, and pretending to like things that I really didn't care about, all in the name of making friends and fitting in. 

Let me save you some time. That doesn't work. 

I'm not trying to say you shouldn't try new hobbies or activities. People are constantly changing and growing, and a new move is a great time to try things out. Try the Singaporean cooking class! Take up the mandolin if you want to! 

I'm just saying that if you try those new exciting activities, and you don't enjoy them, don't keep doing them. Just be aware of yourself. Take note of what you find yourself actually enjoying, and what you're just doing because it feels like it's the big thing to do in your cool, new country.

Big moves are tough. A new place can make you feel anxious, depressed, alone, you name it. When culture shock hits, it can make life feel impossible. Difficult times bring out the worst and the best in people. 

I know. I've seen myself become a sad/angry weirdo many, many times.

But big move is also an amazing thing. It allows you to try new things, see new places, eat new foods, and just generally grow as a person. You'll do stuff your pre-move self would have never done, and I hope it makes you feel great.

So if you're embarking on a big move, congratulations! You're doing something very difficult and very worthwhile. If things get tough for you, remember these tips. 

Good luck, brave movinator! Or in the words of the original...

Hasta la movsta baby!

Lauren and Ray on Wisteria Lane

Fun fact about Japan: they really like flowers here. And when I say really, I mean a whole lot. Sakura (cherry blossom) season is as eagerly anticipated as summer vacation. The two week long festivities are punctuated with hanami, flower viewing parties where everyone gets together to enjoy magnificent blooms (along with some magnificent booze...).

However, Kitakyushu's fuji flowers (known to western folks as "wisteria"), are also a favorite around here. My friend Ray and I decided to take a road trip to check it out-- and what an amazing experience! The colors were sublime, the sunshine was incredible, and the fragrance! Mmm.

It was like inhaling one of those floral sachets they have at bed and breakfast, only less artificial and grandma-y. 

Ray and I met up with Chris and Bek, Kitakyushu ALTs with hearts of gold, who let us sleep in their apartment, drink their tea, and eat their pancakes before leading us to the famous wisteria tunnels. Flowers, friendship and pancakes? What more could you need! 

The end of April/beginning of May is when you need to get to Kitakyushu in order to see these blooming beauties before they're gone. I was smitten with this place-- maybe I'll go again next year? 

Thanks to Chris, Ray and Bek for the amazing time! If you want to check out more pictures from our adventure, check out #laurenandrayonwisterialane on Instagram. Follow me @LaurenLovesNoodles! 

Shimanami Kaido: Japan Cycling Adventures

After three weeks without internet (I forgot to pay my internet bill-- whoops), I'm finally back with updates about life in Japan! I've now almost finished my tenth month here, and honestly, time has gone so fast. It sometimes feels like I'm still a new ALT in Miyazaki-ken, but in a few months, the new JETs will start arriving here. Then I'm sure I'll feel like a veteran ex-pat. 

As for now though, I'm just sort of still trying to get used to living in Japan. Some days I feel like a English teacher champion. Some days I just feel like throwing up my hands and screaming, "why bother?! I don't know anything and I never will! GAHHH!" There are a lot of high highs and low lows. And sometimes, when things get overwhelming, you just have to go do something crazy. 

Like ride a bike 80km (50 miles) across six bridges and seven islands from one prefecture to another!

That's right! I did that!

I rode across the Shimanami Kaido cycling road from Hiroshima prefecture to Ehime for charity at the end of April! Hiroshima prefecture takes about 7 hours to reach by train, and though it was a lot of travel time for one weekend (I was ABSOLUTELY exhausted at work on Monday), it was probably one of the most fun adventures of my life.

I met a ton of JETs from Okayama, Shimane, and Hiroshima prefectures and we all completed the trip together, which was a great motivator for when my legs began to stop working. 

We all rented bicycles in Onomichi and boarded a ferry to begin our long bicycling journey.

My new friend, Dana, who I met on the train to Onomichi the night before. Dana and I completed the whole road together, cracking jokes the whole time! Nothing like harrowing physical exercise to make new friends!

This was the first of our six bridges, and riding across it felt like flying through the sky. The view was amazing. Islands, oceans, boats and cyclers as far as the eye could see.

 On the second island, we reached this happy fellow. I tried to climb up his tail but I didn't get very far.

 I also tried a strawberry daifuku, a mochi treat said to bring good luck! I'm not sure if that's true, but the strawberry, mochi and azuki combination did not disappoint.


Me and the gals, still going strong after only a few kilometers(Photo credit goes to Dana-- thanks!)!

Another grand bridge taunting us from the distance...

 ...as we take a quick break for water and snacks at the convenience store.

 Flowers and Dana looking fabulous as we begin to ride up to another bridge. The bridges were the worst! There were six of them, and before each one there was a giant hill just to get up to the same level as the bridge so you could cross it! My legs were on fire every time!

Dana and I stopped to take some really good jumping photos by this neat cloud house. There was a reason it took us 10 hours to finish...

At this point, my legs were about to fall off and my crotch felt like... well, I don't even know if I'm comfortable describing my crotch sensation on this blog. I feel like my grandparents might read this. So instead, I'll say, "hi grandparents! I love you! Cycling is tough on the old lady business."

Our "We finally finished this crazy journey and this bridge was insane and I'm so tired I'm going to die but I'm going to try not to look tired" face selfie! We finished!

I tried to take a ton of pictures documenting the whole experience from start to finish, but at some point I realized this was one of those "you had to be there" type experiences.

I don't know how I can begin to describe how incredible it felt to cross each of those bridges, or to eat tiny mikan oranges an old man gave us when we were very tired, or how much pain my legs and crotch were in. Seriously. So much pain.

But the endorphins made up for it, I suppose. I had never ridden a road bike before, and it was a thrilling experience. I'd love to do more events like this in the future.

As for now, I'll just try to get through another week of school. I caught a cold this weekend and it's keeping me from being a productive human. Ugh.

Until next time!

That Time When Lauren Did Judo

It started when Yamada Sensei* told me over school lunch that our students would be learning judo during PE class.

“Lauren, during PE today, the students will be learning judo—“

“I WANT TO TRY THAT!” I say excitedly, not fully knowing what judo is, but always ready for a new activity.

“Oh really?” he replies, with a horrified smile on his face. “I thought maybe you’d… er… want to watch. We have a guest teacher today and—“

“Can I please try it?” I plead. I’m not really thinking about why I want to try judo, only that the quote, “you miss one hundred percent of the shots you don’t take” is flashing through my mind. It’s inspiring, heartfelt, and, because I have an irrational fear of missing out on anything that happens in my life, it is all I need to convince me that I must try judo.

Yamada sensei laughs stiffly and makes eye contact with the other teacher at the lunch table. She smiles and shrugs.

“Well… I’ll see if we can find you a uniform that fits,” he says obligingly.

I am ecstatic. I try and high five the student sitting across from me but she is staring at her bowl of rice and doesn’t see my hand. I high five myself.

An hour later, I am standing in the school gymnasium amongst a crowd of Japanese middle school students. I am wearing a stiff, off-white judo uniform. The pants and belt are both a little snug on me, so I constantly suck in my stomach, hoping that it won’t come undone. It does.

I re-tie it, while trying not to look conspicuous. However, all the teachers have come to watch the students perform, and as I am the only giant foreigner woman in their midst, it’s quite probable that my uniform debacle did not go unnoticed.

The visiting teacher is a tall, stern man, who looks like he could’ve been a sergeant in any country’s army. He’s wearing the same sort of stiff judo uniform, only his belt is black and tied tightly. The jacket is open around his chest. I can see a mass of chest hair, and a withered, old nipple when he bends the right way.

He shouts commands. The students respond quickly, falling into a line of perfectly timed small stretches that I have never seen before.

I don’t understand what’s happening so I just try and mirror the instructor, while trying really hard not to make eye contact with his nipple.

Bending over feels awkward as I am certain my judo uniform will come untied at any moment, so I bend as little as possible. I wonder if I will get a cramp.

The instructor shouts something new and all the students get into three perfectly straight lines. I follow them. After explaining some things in unintelligible Japanese, the students get into a lunge position, then start somersaulting across the floor.

It is then that I realize I have made a terrible mistake. Whatever judo is, I want no part in it.

I look over at all the teachers standing in the corner and Yamada sensei gives me an enthusiastic thumbs up. My eyes are terrified saucers.

I befriend another terrified looking student who appears equally horrified at the choice of activity for the day. When it is our turn to launch ourselves into this terrible activity, we give each other a little “good luck” nod and then catapult our awkward bodies on to the mat in front of us.

As I collapse into a strangely positioned heap, the principal runs over to me, and grabs my arm. I think he has come to help me up, and I breathe a sigh of relief. Perhaps I will not have to do any more somersaults.

He does not help me. The principal slams my arm roughly into the ground, shouting Japanese words I’ve never heard before. He then raises his camera and takes a picture of me, as I stare up at him like a scolded puppy.

I think that if there is a hell, there will probably be judo there.

Then our visiting drill sergeant tells us to get into a circle, so we all get up off the floor and stand to attention.

“Thank god,” I think to myself, “now that we’re done with that crazy nonsense, we can start doing actual judo.”

I imagine judo to be some sort of punching and kicking martial art, where we do high jumps and spin on our heads. Or something with swords.

Spoiler alert: Judo is wrestling.

Within the next five minutes, the instructor was holding me by my sleeve and jacket front, yanking me over his shoulders like a sack of meat while explaining something to my students that was, once again, completely unintelligible to me.

From the placement of my body high above his head, I deduced that instructor was training students to lift their wrestling partner in order to throw them to the ground.

I felt like a frog that had signed up for a fun day of splashing around in the pond, only to find out that the pond was actually a pot of boiling water in a French kitchen.

My eyes were bulging out of their sockets in pure fear, and the students stared at me with a mixture of horror and pity.

When he finally launched me back onto the ground, I fell with a thud, while the students all paired together to practice their new judo skills. My eye was still twitching in fright.

My horrified somersault student friend from before was the only student left when I finally stood back up, so she was paired with me.

I think this new development made her even more horrified, considering that now she had to practice wrestling her crazy foreign teacher who doesn’t have any idea what’s happening.

She walked over to me, and we smiled awkwardly at each other for a moment, acknowledging the weirdness.

In English, I say, “I have literally no idea what is happening. Can you tell me what is happening?” I don’t know why I do this because I know that she won’t understand, but I am embarrassed and confused.

For some reason, speaking my native language comforts me, as if to remind me that I’m actually really smart if only someone would speak English to me.

She sort of tilts her head and cringes, so I apologize in Japanese, telling her that we should do our best.

She nods and smiles encouragingly at me.

Then, grabbing onto my jacket sleeve and lapel, she attempts to pull me over her shoulder and throw me on the ground.

Considering that I probably have about fifty pounds on this girl, I didn’t really think it was going to happen.

As I looked down at her tiny noodle arms limply yanking my jacket, I noticed that on one of her feet she also only had four toes.

To get my mind off the judo that was happening all around me, I thought about the significance of only having four toes.

I thought about what it must feel like to try and hoist a woman twice your size over your shoulder when, perhaps, without the extra fifth toe, your balance is slightly askew.

I thought things like judo must be difficult for her. Perhaps that’s why she was so horrified about somersaults.

The instructor, apparently noticing this poor girl having trouble, came over to help her out.

My soul had left my body at this point, so I didn’t really notice.

He lifted me up over his head again, to demonstrate that anyone can lift a foreigner if they just try hard enough. From my new aerial perspective, I get a great bird’s eye view of his weird, hairy nipple.

He then throws me onto the mat like a hunter throwing a prize buck carcass into the back of his station wagon.
Gently, but with enough force to confirm that it is, in fact, dead.

At this point, the fifth period bell rang. The students bowed to each other and walked off the gym mat, leaving me lying on the floor alone, considering whether or not it was worth it to ever get back up.

Yamada sensei runs over to me to report that it was time for a water break.

“The students have another period of judo practice after this,” he told me, “but if you’d like, you can return home now.”

“YES I THINK I’VE HAD ENOUGH,” I say, though I can’t be certain whether or not my voice is at a reasonable volume. I quickly pull myself up to go thank the instructor, though for what, I am not sure.

He turns to me with a sort of smug “you’re not good at judo” look in his eye. I bow to him, and begin the mandatory thank you spiel that I give to everyone I meet. “ARIGATO GOZAIMASHITA. YOROSHIKU ONEGAI--”

I stop mid-thank you as the instructor reaches to my belt and reties it for me, pulling it tight around my already sucked in belly. He says many Japanese words that I have never heard before. I feel strange.

He nods to me, then turns away. I pray to God that this act does not mean I will have to endure another period of judo.

I decide to just cut my losses and get out of there.

As I walk past all the students drinking their cold green tea, laughing and joking about the fun they had practicing their favorite sport, judo (ugh!), my somersault buddy shouts to me in Japanese.

“Lauren sensei! Are you finished?” she says.

“Yes,” I say, in sort of a forced way. “Time to go home now.”

“Well, you’re very good at judo! Let’s do it again sometime!”

She runs back to her friends. I stand there, feeling totally silly.

“Maybe judo isn’t such a bad sport after all,” I think to myself. “Maybe if I just pushed myself a little harder, I could be a judo master!”

Then I remember the weird, weird nipple. I scurry out of the gymnasium as fast as possible.



*Names have been changed because this story is awkward.