|I don't know what to do with this thing
||[Nov. 4th, 2010|12:32 pm]
I have just switched weapons and am now fencing epee. What this means to you, non-fencing reader, is that I no longer have to deal with mind-bending rules. I just have to hit first and anywhere on the body, including the foot. This is good because in foil I had a tendency to hit my opponents in their crotch.|
I think fencing appeals to my masochism and basic love of violence. Everyone apologizes when they hit me really hard, but I don't notice (I got more than a couple of shots to the throat, too). Except when they hit some soft spot where a joint is, like the inside of my elbow, or where my thigh meets my whatever you call that area where the crotch starts. Even so, I yelp for a second and just continue. My left arm is black and blue in some spots, but this is more a reminder that I need to run away more often.
I have upped my weight lifting game to where I can deadlift 100 lbs and squat 115 lbs. I'm still waiting to drop something on my foot or wrench my back (and my eventual addiction to painkillers to truly round out my middle class lifestyle). This led to an odd moment the other night. I was out on a date, and happened to be leaning on my arms against the bar (I seem to spend a lot of time in bars). Dude grabs my upper arm while making a point, and is suddenly in awe its muscularity. So much so that he keeps randomly grabbing it all night, in addition to poking at my calf. Let us ignore his lack of home training for a moment. I just want to point out that it's not like I look like a Williams sister, I just don't have floppy chicken wings. I also like to destroy Tokyo in my spare time. Dude was awkward in an unendearing manner anyhow, which you'll have to get from me in person. I'm still confused by the one who high fived me at the end of the date.
I don't particularly care for people calling me athletic, as I still have left over jock hatred from my youth. And I participate in nerd sports, where I still find room to be awkward. Yesterday I pulled my mask on super fast and hit myself on the bridge of the nose so hard that I saw stars for a couple of seconds. Earlier that day I almost killed myself riding down a short drop in Golden Gate. I got custom panniers (so hot), and have been riding around with only one of them since I don't carry that much. Since one side of my bike is weighed down more than the other, my bike started to slip out from under me, while shooting down hill. My handlebars dipped down into crazy figure eights while I imagined my crumbled body underneath whatever cars and trucks were behind me. I managed to stay upright, but decided to walk my bike downhill for the rest of my ride. Unfortunately, there are more than a few hills between my house and school which made for a long, sweaty ride in unseasonably warm temperatures. I just realized how boring this paragraph is to anyone but me. Hell, this whole fucking entry.
The only other thing to talk about is school, which is just as boring. After a year of organizing and fear, my cohort put on an academic conference which went off without a hitch. Mostly because I wasn't in charge of anything. I read my paper on the failings of the film Good Hair, which was an interesting balance of reading, making eye contact with the audience, and trying not to pee on myself in terror. I've never been a fan of public speaking, but it's gotten worse these past couple of years. Maybe since I haven't had to do it since undergrad? I'm perfectly okay with taking my clothes off in front of random strangers on stage (as my coworkers constantly remind me), but talking makes me want to vomit all over myself. Next hurdle: thesis.