I recently began taking some Mixed Martial Arts classes. I had never even studied a martial art in the past, and I didn’t really have a compelling reason to start Mark
Gorestaking the classes other than my friends were running out of fresh ways to make fun of me.

So in getting rid of the Harry Potter nickname because I wear glasses, I picked up new, exciting names like Kung Fu Panda and Karate Kid.

I am not a person who thoroughly enjoys being new at something, so I was a little nervous when it came time for my first class. I was determined not to stick out as the new guy by keeping quiet and doing the best I could. When it came time to start my first class, the instructor had everyone line up in order of rank. It was an impressive lineup with different-colored belts that started with what looked like Bruce Lee and Chuck Norris in the front of the line with black belts all the way down the rainbow to my neon white “you are still a pansy, don’t you forget it” belt. It was hard for me to tell if it actually was Bruce and Chuck in the front as I was about 50 yards away and was just warned about wearing my Harry Potters during training. I could still make out shapes, though, and that was how I knew I was not fitting in.  I looked up and down the line at everyone’s belt. They all were tied in a nice knot with either end draping down their hips. Then I looked at my belt and, after getting over the blinding white color, noticed that my two ends were sticking straight out like someone was playing a trick on the new guy by slipping his belt some Viagra. I blushed like an adolescent school boy and nonchalantly tried to disguise my perky belt. I kept my hands folded in front of me as much as possible, but the belt would still pop out occasionally, which made for quite the traumatizing day. So much for not sticking out on my first day.

I wasn’t going to quit, though. I got home and washed my whole uniform and belt, thinking that it might get some starch off the belt and help it settle down a bit, and got ready for the next day.

My next class started OK. I tied my belt perfectly in the changing room and walked out to the gym proudly to start really learning how to whoop someone’s butt. Well, I learned quickly that the changing room doesn’t really have good lighting. We were lined up by rank, and again I was at the very end. I puffed out my chest to make my rookie self look like a tough guy, but then I noticed that my belt wasn’t so blinding white anymore. In fact, it had turned a vivacious pink after washing it with my red ninja top. I might as well have just shown up wearing a tutu and used the belt as a sash. In a sport that relies heavily on colors of belts for ranking, I was the guy with the pink belt. In fact, I think I even heard Bruce whisper to Chuck, “Who’s the new guy with the pink belt, Chuck?” To which he responded, “That must be the one guy that bought my Total Gym.”

I pressed on with my pink sash, determined to make the best out of the humiliating experience, but it only got worse. We were learning some technical move where you grab this hand with that hand, no not that hand, the other hand, no, your hand, with some fancy ninja name that I don’t fully recall. Anyway, I missed the key step of not dragging my foot across the mat and simultaneously pulling the skin off my foot like a sock. I tried to play it cool, but when the instructor noticed my foot was the same color as my sash, he stopped class and made me tape up my foot and mentioned to the whole class that this is why some new people prefer to wear wrestling shoes when they first start. Now not only was I the new guy with the pink sash, but I was the new guy with the pink sash and the pansy skin, and a new poster child for the “cauliflower foot can happen to you” foundation.

When I got home that day, I opened an envelope and was shocked to see that I’d received my first stripe. I was officially a first-degree pink sash ninja, and the humiliation was worth it.

At the bottom of the congratulatory letter was an ancient Chinese secret: Don’t wash your belt with your uniform the first few times, as the colors will bleed and turn the belt pink.

 Mark Gores, a 27-year-old realtor, lives in Prior Lake with his wife, Emily. To comment on this column, call the editor at (952) 345-6378 or e-mail markgores@yahoo.com [2] or editor@plamerican.com [3].