While all of you know that for several years I was a competitive Irish dancer, few of you know that I was once a student of karate (pronounced ka-rah-tay). You there, in the back. Quit laughing.
At the tender age of 6, when my Northern Irish accent had hardly even worn off, I was befriended by a young man named Matt. We were in the same class, and on the day that the teacher handed out the obligatory get-your-kids-involved-in-physical-activity leaflets to send home to the parents, Matt suggested I join karate with him. I'm not exactly sure why, but I did.
So. There's what seems like 300 first graders taking karate in this class, learning to kick and punch but more than anything learning to wait in line for your turn. The sensei told us that if we ever had a question to raise our hands and he would answer it.
One evening while all 300 of us were stretching, propping our lower backs up with our elbows as our tiny legs reached toward the heavens, I paused to ask a question. I had raised my hand several times during the exercises, but the sensei kept telling me to hold on, he'd answer my question after we were done stretching. Unfortunately, my question was "May I use the bathroom?"
Naturally, as my little legs flailed in the air, I peed my gi.
And that was the end of that.
However, years later (I'm talking like summer 2005) I was over at the house of some friends who were longtime martial arts practitioners. With a little coaching in technique, I punched through an inch-think board on the first try. And I only peed a little bit. I'll wait for your applause.