Week 1- What have I gotten myself into?!

The day before class, I read over the HEMA website. I pore over the Wiktenauer, picking up bits and pieces of information that I know I’ll never remember. I give up my six-year hatred of Facebook to go explore the HEMA boards there, to read up on the hundreds of questions asked and answered, and try not to lose my soul to the evil soul-sucking social network I spent years avoiding. (Internet stalkers will ruin anything for you). I may as well be reading Sanskrit for all I understand, but I read it all. At least now I know that there are quite a few folks with a great sense of humor in HEMA, and most everyone who posts seems very patient, both of which bode well for my sure-to-be-laughable attempts to learn to fight with a longsword.

The first day of class! I’m excited, but terrified. It feels like the first day of school again. I’m sure I’ll break something, and make a fool of myself doing it. My brother used to call me Grace… it wasn’t a compliment. Most likely I’ll maim myself with a sword. What if I’m so bad I make the instructor regret inviting me? What if the other kids (most of them are about 20 years younger) don’t like me? What if they make fun of my red panda backpack? Yes, I’m six years old. Anyway, I’m so nervous I make myself queasy. Great, now I can add puking on the instructor to my list of worries. Paranoid I’ll hit traffic on the long drive, I leave an hour early. I show up right on time. No idea where that extra hour went. Correction, I drive past the house right on time. I keep watching the clock, twitching and mumbling about being late like the white rabbit on crack as I look for somewhere to turn around. By the time I adjust and make my way back, I’m only three minutes late, but still... I hate being late. There’s one other guy here too, and he’s also new. Yay! I’m not the only new person! New things scare me, and tend to make me move with all the speed of molasses in winter. I had planned just to watch the first class, take notes. I’m a big believer in notes. I'm not even sure I really want to do this.  Jake, however, apparently did not get the memo about my plan. He hands me a black plastic sword, a ‘waster.’ Looks like it would have been an awful lot of fun to hit my younger brother with back in the day. Actually, it’d be fun to hit him with one now too. Either way, it’s probably going to be wasted on me for sure, because I haven’t the foggiest idea what to do with it.

More fog… I’m just following along, trying not to get too lost in all the terms. I’m good with the warm-ups, though the passing step I think was a move I learned in dance class years ago, and I’m pretty sure one of the other steps we just call galloping when we do it with kindergarten classes at school. As we’re doing something that involves Earth and suns and moons and probably a few comets and a black hole or something, I have a sudden realization: I am totally not in shape enough for this. But hey, there’s an up side- sword fighting as a weight-loss and exercise plan! It can’t hurt, right? Basic positions we learn next. It takes me ten minutes to realize the reason I feel like nothing is in English is because…  well... it’s not. I heard something about an ox I’m sure, and I can watch well enough to figure out what we’re supposed to be doing right now, and thank goodness Jake’s translating and it’s English again. We practice moving the wasters around until it doesn’t entirely feel like a waste of time, and it almost seems as if I can maybe do this after all! But then... ratburgers. German again.

Cripes, he wants me to actually fight someone? I’ve had only two hours of lessons! Holy Hell, I’ve no idea what I’m doing. Thankfully, neither does my fellow nooblet. We take some practice swings, trying to convince ourselves we know what we’re doing. Well, that’s what I’m doing anyway. Then Jake guides us into playing like real sword-wielding grownups, tossing in bits of history and wisecracks enough to keep us laughing despite our ineptitude. By sheer luck, I score a tiny hit, and just like that, I'm all: "When’s the next practice?"