I’ll eventually regret sharing something so personal; but since I’ll be on the road Monday en route to my childhood stomping grounds, and because “All My Exes Live in Texas,” it’s on my mind. No one reads this blog anyway, right?
I left my first husband because he was physically abusive, which is the necessary starting point for the real story: how I met my current husband.
I moved to another state and got an apartment and a job and some friends, and with the job came spending money I’d never had before. For several years I’d been vaguely interested in Krav Maga, and once I’d taken on the title of Estranged Wife, my interest increased dramatically. I’d seen enough episodes of ‘Forensic Files’ to know one likely outcome of my separation. I decided spend my walking-around money on learning how to kick ass.
Despite several acts of bravery in my life, I’m not a brave person. Deciding to learn Krav Maga was one thing; the thought of walking into a dojo filled with (I assumed) a couple dozen grunting, sweaty, meaty dudes punching each other filled me with dread. I picked a dojo, parked outside five minutes before the start of the next class, and tried to assess the situation.
Unfortunately, the dojo I’d picked sat behind a wall of glass facing the street. The sun was setting, and the windows had turned to mirrors that reflected my sorry ass parked across the street, immobilized with terror. I had no idea what or who was behind the door. Would I disrupt a class in progress? Would I be faced with ridicule for attempting to insert myself into this new world? Would I find a locked door and become the object of impersonal scorn to the people inside watching me wrestle with the door?
My mom got me out of the car and across the street. She wasn’t with me and had no idea what I was up to, but as I gripped my steering wheel and ginned myself up, I remembered the story. Decades ago, she’d driven to a local community college and sat paralyzed in the parking lot, trying to work up the courage to go inside and ask about degree programs. She never went inside.
I did go inside, and upon yanking open the door with way too much gusto, I saw two people: the instructor, and one female student. Thinking I’d interrupted a private lesson, I started to back out; but the instructor waved me in and made me feel welcome. He taught me what to do if someone grabs a fistful of my shirt, and after one class I was hooked.
My current husband wasn’t there that night, but he was a mainstay in every other class I attended. Tall, dark, and handsome. Smart and funny and a dog-lover. Devastatingly skilled at Krav Maga, frequent teacher’s assistant and, when I was lucky, patient and instructive sparring partner.
Obviously, if I hadn’t gone inside, I never would have met him. If I hadn’t been so scared of my first husband, I wouldn’t have moved to a new state, and I don’t think I’d ever have gotten around to learning Krav Maga. So even though it’s macabre and way, way too personal, I have to say I feel very fortunate to have survived an abusive relationship.
– AK