self-defense

by Miss What's-Your-Name-Again?

Dear Girl Who Punched An Older Kid in The Balls Today,

I’m sorry I made you sit outside in the hallway and recount the story of why you assaulted little Jimmy or Brian or whatever his name is twice (once for me and once for the Other Teacher Who Is Better At Peer Mediation.) Quite frankly, once was enough for me because I can’t really understand half of what you mumble, and gave up asking you to repeat yourself at the beginning of last year. And yes, that means I don’t understand any of your jokes. But for what it’s worth, your delivery is hysterical.

I’ll tell you what I know about self-defense. Because, guess what? I know a fucking ton about it. My dad wasn’t just a master of martial arts. He was a Grand Master. And when I, at an early age, was thrown out of my beloved ballet classes (I was always an advocate of a more free-form style of arts exploration) I was promptly placed in Taekwondo class at his studio, where I remained for the next roughly ten years of my childhood, kicking ass and trying to make that shapeless white uniform work for me. I became a black belt and finally had permission to graduate to my high school field hockey team, an extracurricular that fulfilled my personal dress requirements: knee-high socks and plaid miniskirt. But I’ll never forget my Dad’s parting words when he finally handed over that black belt certificate: “My daughter, you’ve learned everything you need to know about self defense. But should you ever need to use it, I want you to forget it all and just: kick ‘em in the balls, and run like hell.”

My father gave me very few pieces of advice in my life, kiddo. I took these words to heart. Do I believe Jimmy was endangering you? Have you had a good look at him lately? The last time I was in his class, he broke the pencil sharpener by repeatedly trying to sharpen his eraser. But that’s not really the point.

This shitty guy followed me around at a bar the other night, and repeatedly insulted me in an attempt to make conversation (“You know what?  I think it’s really great that you are pursuing a career in the arts, I think it’s just great when people try to follow their dreams!”) However, this too was not necessarily a situation in which physical assault could be reasonably defended, so instead I bitchfaced in silence while he yammered on, and then lamely excused myself to close my tab. Know what? Punching him in the balls would have not only saved me a good hour of that bullshit, but also would have made me feel so much better!

You will have precious few years in your life when you can just haul off and slug a guy for being an asshole, and I say enjoy the fuck out of them.

Cheers,

Miss What’s-Your-Name-Again?

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