Birds of a feather and all that

Something disturbing is going on over here. And it’s not just “The Handmaid’s Tale” Season 2, episode 1 because OMG my husband and I finally watched it and I am traumatized. But I digress.

A couple of days ago, I looked outside into the backyard and noticed a white patch on the lawn. I couldn’t quite make out what it was. At first I thought it was a patch of dandelions that had gone to seed. I walked back there to check it out more closely. I was in no way prepared for what I was about to see because apparently I stumbled upon a CRIME SCENE:

As you can see, there were a mess of feathers scattered all over the lawn. Some of them were bloody. I suppose something–a dog, a fox, a coyote, a thing of EVIL–killed a bird and did it in the most violent way possible. It was just horrible. There was no sign of the bird anywhere.

I was hoping the mess would take care of itself over the next few days, like the wind would blow the feathers away or something. I was wrong. It’s four days later and the feathers are still there. As is the blood.

The only good thing to come out of it was that my kid had to make a traditional Hopi headdress for school and during construction, we realized we should have bought feathers during our trip to Joanne’s earlier in the day. I mentioned that maybe we could grab some from what was left of the deceased bird in the backyard and my kid was all, “Yeah!!!!!” and I was all, “Ugh, now I have to go find some feathers that aren’t bloody; I’ll be right back.”

I picked out two feathers and my kid glued them onto the headdress, so I guess the bird did not die in vain. Yay. Today’s blog post brought to you by Debbie Downer.

Who wants a hot date?

Something has been weighing on me for days. I can’t for the life of me figure out how to resolve it. I’ve taken a variety of approaches in dealing with it, but nothing seems to be working. I need help.

Behold, my albatross:

I bought these on Sunday. I thought they would be a good addition to my kids’ lunch boxes. They looked kind of like candy and were sweet, but since they’re only made of dates and coconut, they’re healthy too. I mean, they’re called “delights.” In the words of Ina Garten, “How bad could that be?”

I was so excited to pack them up the next day and I announced to my kids that I had bought something “very special” for their lunches. They came running into the kitchen with huge smiles on their faces. Then they looked at the container and read the label.

My friends, it was on that night that I saw the face of unadulterated despair (actually two faces), and it is burned into my brain forevermore. Nevertheless, I told my kids to give the Natural Delights a chance and taste them because they were really, really good and like candy. Kid #1 fell for it. Kid #2 would only allow it if I sliced off a minuscule piece from the whole. They popped them into their mouths.

Me: “See, they’re good!” (I have never in my life tried a Natural Delight and don’t care for dates, but my kids didn’t need to know that.)

Kid #1: “Um, no, they’re actually terrible.”

Kid #2: (turning green) “Yuck.” (I don’t think he actually ingested any part of the minuscule piece, but I can’t prove anything. Kid #2 is really crafty.)

Me: “Oh come on, they can’t be that bad.” (Then, to my husband) “Come over here and try one of these. They’re delicious!”

My husband: “No way. I’m not eating that.”

So, fine. Nobody wanted to eat them. I couldn’t eat them myself because of my aversion to dates. Over the next few days, the container sat and sat and sat. I tried to convince my kids to try them again, but it was a no go.

Yesterday I asked my husband to bring them into work. He refused. I think his exact words were, “No one’s going to eat those. Gross.”

I asked my kids this morning if they could bring them to school and put the entire container on the “share table” at lunch. They said no because the package was already open and things for the share table need to be sealed. Well played.

I had no idea what to do with my Natural Delights. I CANNOT throw them into the garbage. First, they were expensive, and second, I’m not throwing perfectly good food away. I was at my wit’s end.

But then I realized something: I have a blog! And through that blog I can reach people! People who like date rolls! So if you live near me and would like this container of Natural Delights, it is all yours. It deserves a good home with people who don’t berate it on a daily basis.

A tale of woe

I was so close.

Last night I took a ride on an emotional roller coaster. I hate roller coasters, emotional or otherwise, so you can imagine that I did not have the time of my life.

It all started with my husband, as rides on emotional roller coasters often do. He sat down on the couch and turned on the television. It was not sports. That was the first clue that something unusual was about to happen.

Then he reached for the remote that changes the set-up from TV to whatever it’s called when you can stream shows from Netflix/Hulu/etc. right to your television. Clearly, I’m not well-versed in this technology, but I knew enough to know that something amazing was about to happen.

You see, my husband does not enjoy watching television shows. He prefers movies. There’s only one show he’s ever actually watched with me and liked, and it was “The Handmaid’s Tale,” based on Margaret Atwood’s book of the same name. It was at that moment that it occurred to me that he was going to tune into the first episode of “The Handmaid’s Tale” SEASON 2. I knew that it was being released like any minute but totally forgot about it until that very second and I cannot even express to you how incredibly stoked I was that this was going to happen momentarily. I was so happy I started screaming, prompting my kid to scream down from his bedroom, “What’s wrong? Are you crying?!?”

“Oh no,” I replied, “Everything is finally so, so right!!”

So we’re sitting there, the anticipation of the new season pretty much killing me, when all of a sudden my husband says, “Uh oh.” Terrified, I asked what was going on. Did the internet go out? Was the house on fire, making us evacuate and delay our viewing? What?!? He replied that the new season was not going to be released for two more days.

Do you know what it’s like to achieve nirvana and then suddenly plummet down to the deepest depths of despair in two seconds flat? I do. Because that was me.

And if things weren’t bad enough, he asked me the one question that made me hit rock bottom (I already thought I was at rock bottom, but he inexplicably was able to bring me further down). This is what he asked me: “Do you want to watch a pack break instead?”

For those of you who don’t know what a pack break is, I envy you. Sometimes I think back to the days when I didn’t know what a pack break was, and I actually weep. A pack break is a type of YouTube video in which a person records him or herself on video opening baseball card packs. Then this person discuss the cards they’ve received AT LENGTH, including what number it is in the sequence of production, the condition of the card, etc. I imagine if there is a hell, it’s a never-ending loop of pack breaks being broadcast on 50 different computer screens simultaneously, and I am forced to sit in a chair in the middle of them all.

I mean, to go from watching the first episode of a new season of “The Handmaid’s Tale” to watching a pack break was JUST TOO MUCH TO BEAR. I became despondent. Irritable. Irate. And that was just in the first 60 seconds after the suggestion.

We ended up watching the first episode of “Jessica Jones,” so the evening wasn’t a total loss. It was good. No “Handmaid’s Tale,” but what is, am I right?

I think I’ll take today to recover from having experienced the highest of highs and lowest of lows all within a five-minute period because, honestly, it’s taken a lot out of me. Let this be a lesson to you: Research when your favorite shows are dropping so this doesn’t happen to you. I wouldn’t wish this on anyone.

Image from The Stranger.

I smell a rat

Cleo the Cat, living her best life

I saw the craziest thing in the pet store yesterday. I was there because it was my cat’s 15th birthday and I needed to buy her some gifts for her birthday celebration. I know what you’re thinking and, no, it was not ME who was the craziest thing in the pet store yesterday. If you choose not to have birthday parties for your pets, then that’s your prerogative, but I hope you realize you are missing out on a great excuse to have cake. And that’s sad.

Anyway, as my kid and I were waiting in line to pay for our various gifts, there was a woman at the check-out who had some kind of small animal resting on her shoulder. I pointed it out to my kid, and he screamed, “What is that?!?!” to my embarrassment and horror. Just kidding, I was just about to scream the same thing, but he beat me to it.

The owner of the pet glanced in our direction and replied sweetly, “He’s a rat.”

I screamed, “A rat?!?” and just stared at this gigantic thing perched on her shoulder. I mean…a rat. A GIANT rat. And it was wearing a leash.

Upon further inspection, we saw that the woman had a little carrier for the rat. It was a cat carrier, but for her rat. So it was a rat carrier, I guess.

My kid and I were just staring at the rat, amazed by its size and the fact that it was impeccably behaved. I think I’ve seen rats before on subway tracks. They were not impeccably behaved, as far as I was concerned.

Then something else caught my eye. There, sitting on the cashier’s counter two feet away, was a cat. Looking at the rat. I looked at my kid, he looked at me, and we both kind of panicked.

“Um, is it okay that there’s a cat right there?” I said to the cashier. I mean, how could the cat NOT be going crazy at that moment? Don’t cats hunt rats and mice? Isn’t that how they’re wired? What madness was this?

“Nah, he’s okay,” they said. I let it go, but I couldn’t help but picture the bloodbath that was surely about to happen. My kid would be traumatized. I would be traumatized.

All I wanted to do was scream, “Woman, put that rat in the carrier!!!” But I didn’t because I didn’t want to seem crazy. Yeah, because I was the crazy one in this situation.

It turns out that the woman with the rat left before the cat attacked it, to my huge relief. The rat was spared on that particular day, and all I’m left with are a variety of questions: Why a rat for a pet? Where do you get a leash that tiny? Do you take your pet rat on regular outings? Can you walk it like a dog? And, most importantly, WHAT WAS THE RAT’S NAME? I guess I’ll never know.

Update: My readers and me

I know my potential reading glasses have been the talk of the town since I posted about the possibility of needing them earlier this week. All I can read on the interwebs is, “Will she or won’t she buy the readers?!?” I’m here to update you and put your mind at ease.

I went to the optometrist yesterday and got good news and bad news. The good news: It was all in my imagination and I don’t need reading glasses in any way!

Just kidding. I totally need reading glasses. That’s the bad news. The good news is that my ability to see distance has improved a lot. I don’t know how that happened. I’m told it comes with age, but I’d like to think that all those eye workouts I did (eye lunges, eye push-ups, eye squats) finally paid off! Yipee!

After I was given a new and improved prescription for my contact lenses, I decided it was time to bite the bullet and buy some readers. Hey, maybe I’d even try to stay  positive and embrace it! I headed over to Walgreens and was trying really hard to feel AOK about it, and was succeeding until I saw this:

 

As you can see from the photograph, the readers are on the far right at the end of the aisle. But what did I encounter on the WAY to the readers? Well, all the things somebody buying readers might also need according to Walgreens. You’ll immediately notice the walker just a few feet away. Upon closer inspection, I found a toilet safety rail, a raised toilet seat, a foam cushion to sit on for when I guess your hemorrhoids are flaring up, and replacement wheels for the above-mentioned walker.

I’m not going to lie: it was really hard to embrace this new stage of my life after seeing this. I walked by the display and began to peruse the selection of readers, but the minutes ticked by. I was feeling more and more yucky about it and, most importantly, couldn’t find a style that wasn’t hideous. I finally freaked out and had to leave.

After I gave myself a stern talking-to, I decided to take a trip to this trendy glasses store and pick out a pair there. I figured then I would feel like was going shopping for “a fashion statement accessory.” Yeah, that was the ticket.

After lots of moaning and groaning (I’m sure the saleswoman in the shop just loved me), I finally decided on a pair:

So there you have it. FYI, I did not get a chain so I could wear them around my neck and always know where they are, but you never know. My husband says I might need one because the next thing to go is the memory. He is just hilarious.

 

Read it and weep

I’ve been in denial for a while now about something that, at first, I thought was no big deal. But things have escalated quickly. And they say the first step in fixing a problem is admitting that there is a problem.

So fine. I’ll just put it out there in black and white. Damn it, I don’t want to admit this, but I need freaking reading glasses.

Ugh. Just the worst.

I guess it was about a year ago when I noticed something had…shifted. I would look at the back of DVD covers to see how long a particular movie was, but I couldn’t quite make out the numbers next to the minutes. I’d move the DVD closer and then further away and then closer to my face once again, but even when I squinted, I couldn’t read it clearly. I laughed it off.

“Oh, who can even read these DVD covers anyway? The type is so tiny!” which was then followed by an overly enthusiastic, hysterical laugh, and by “hysterical” I don’t mean funny; I mean characterized by actual hysteria.

As the months went by, I noticed that here and there I was having trouble seeing things up close. I couldn’t take a photograph and see what I was snapping on the screen clearly. I’d be in a restaurant and have difficulty reading the menu. And if there was dim mood lighting, forget about it. I joked about/seriously considered placing a magnifying glass by all the DVDs so I could read the print on the backs with ease.

I want to be clear about this though–I wear contacts for distance and have for 20 years. When I’m not wearing my contacts, I can see perfectly well up close (even though I can’t see three feet in front of me). It’s only when I’m wearing my contacts that I have trouble seeing nearby things.

I reasoned that the problem lie in my contact lenses. I convinced myself pretty adamantly that this was in fact the case. Until one day, my husband came along and ruined everything:

Me: “I really think I need a new prescription. These contacts are preventing me from seeing up close.”

My husband: “It has nothing to do with your contacts.”

Me: “What are you talking about? Of course it does. I see fine up close when I’m not wearing them.”

My husband: “Your eyes can’t accommodate anymore.”

Me: “Say what now?”

My husband: “Your eyes can’t accommodate. They can’t adjust quickly from distance to up close anymore.”

Me: “Oh yeah? Well, why is it just happening now? I’ve never had that problem before.”

My husband: “Because it happens as you age. You just need reading glasses.”

Me: *eye twitching*

Dreams: shattered. Delusions of grandeur: well, un-delusioned. How could this be? How am I old enough to need reading glasses?!? Who is that blurry person staring back at me in the mirror? I don’t even know anymore.

What would living with reading glasses even look like? How do you access your readers throughout the day without having them on your person at all times? I’m not going to carry them around in my hand or my purse and have to rifle through that all the time. That must be why people hang their readers on chains from their necks. Like librarians. And now apparently me. I totally get that now. It’s a nifty solution.

I know what you’re going to say. Just wear bifocals. That way you can see up close and far away at all times. Yeah, well, screw you. I’m not wearing bifocals.

So maybe one of these days while I’m at CVS picking up a few things, I might peruse the reading glasses at the end of the aisle. I’m not saying I’m going to BUY a pair, but maybe just see what’s up. I mean, plenty of twenty-year-olds wear readers. Right? RIGHT?!?

 

 

 

 

 

Sleep tight. Or not.

 

I have a feeling that this post is going to spark an online battle of the sexes, but you gotta crack a few eggs to make an omelet, am I right? And I am cracking. Real bad.

Yesterday was clean sheets day. I really like clean sheets day. I mean, I don’t love taking all the sheets off the beds, washing them, and remaking the beds, but I like going to sleep in a bed with sheets that have been freshly laundered.

What are my husband’s feelings about clean sheets day? He has none, as far as I know. That’s because I don’t think he ever actually realizes that it is clean sheets day since he’s not directly involved in any of the steps that make such a glorious day happen.

Until last night. At about 11 pm it was time to go to sleep, but as I walked into my bedroom, I realized that although I had laundered all the sheets, I hadn’t yet made up the bed. So as tired as I was, I took one for the team and not only put the sheets on the bed, but layered the appropriate blankets, pillows, etc. I was SO tired, though, that I did everything except sliding my husband’s pillow into the clean pillowcase. I just kind of threw the empty pillowcase on his side of the bed and settled in for the night.

I was feeling a little guilty that I didn’t complete the final step of clean sheets day, but that feeling was obliterated right quick once he came to bed. Why? Because instead of simply sliding his pillow into the clean pillowcase, he threw the pillowcase on the floor and made a conscious decision to SLEEP WITH NO PILLOW.

What madness is this?!? I was so confused. I couldn’t stay silent:

Me: “Aren’t you going to put the pillowcase on your pillow?”

Him: “No.”

Me: “What are you talking about? You’re not going to sleep with a pillow just because you don’t want to put the pillowcase on?”

Him: “Yup.”

Me: “WHAT?!? You’d rather be uncomfortable all night than take two seconds to put the pillowcase on??”

Him: “That is correct.”

Me: (stewing) “Well, I’m not going to put the pillowcase on. That’s ridiculous. So you’re going to have to sleep the entire week without a pillow.”

Him: “Ok.”

Me: *twitching*

This morning I made the bed but left his pillowcase-less pillow on the floor, with the pillowcase lying ON TOP of it.

I feel like I am revisiting the door sticker incident of 2013. But this time, I’m not giving in. I can do this. I CAN DO THIS. I can make the bed every morning without his pillow in its proper spot. I can just leave it on the floor with the pillowcase draped on top of it and it won’t bother me. Mark my words, IT WILL NOT BOTHER ME.

Ladies, I’m sure you’re with me. Gentleman, if you are like my husband, I don’t understand you.

 

Home sweet home

Back in the day, I was a HUGE X-Files fan. That is until I saw one particular episode called “Home,” and then I went off it completely. Cold turkey. No going back.

For those of you who didn’t catch that one, here’s the gist: These three brothers whose last name is Peacock live in this creepy old house. A deformed baby is found buried nearby, and Scully and Mulder are called in to see what’s up. The sheriff of the town, which is aptly named Home, implies that the Peacock family has been inbreeding for years, but there are only three brothers (who are deformed themselves) and no women living in the house. So, it’s hypothesized that the brothers have kidnapped a random woman, impregnated her, and, when she gave birth, buried the baby.

Well, it turns out that the brothers did not in fact kidnap a random woman and impregnate her. They are actually “breeding” with THEIR OWN MOTHER. Who has NO ARMS OR LEGS. Who also LIVES ON A SLED UNDERNEATH THE BED. I have tried my whole life to block out the scene in which this woman is discovered–where Scully and Mulder roll her out on her sled from under the bed–and it has HAUNTED me.

I believe two of the brothers were killed but the third one escaped with the mother. They were off to start a new inbred Peacock family together. The details are fuzzy because by the time I got to the end of the episode, I was pretty much curled up in a fetal position on the floor, rocking back and forth and weeping softly.

That was the last X-Files episode I watched until last year, when Fox rebooted the series and I figured since I was a grown up now, I might be able to handle it better. I got hooked, and now that a new season just started, I am similarly hooked. (Note: I will only watch episodes during the daytime hours. Shh, it’s a secret.)

So today I watched one of the most recent episodes, which had this amazing actress in it named Karin Konoval. She played twins, one of whom was a woman while the other one was a man, and she was fantastic. I only know her name because I Googled her and during my important research stumbled upon the fact that she portrayed Mrs. Peacock (legless! Armless! Lives on a sled under the bed!) all those years ago.

I found her on Twitter and decided I needed to write to her directly. I tweeted to her:

“You traumatized 12-year-old me in the Home episode of #TheXFiles but I finally forgive you after watching you as Judy/Chuck. You made me positively giddy with your awesomeness.”

I have to admit — I did this more for me than for her because I needed some closure from all that trauma she stirred up. I guess I needed to show myself that she was, after all, just acting and there was no armless, legless woman living on a sled under a bed in real life. At least I don’t think there is.

I sent the tweet and was about to x out of my research on her when I noticed something: The Home episode premiered in 1996. It got me to thinking. I was not, in fact, 12 years old as I initially recalled. I wasn’t 11 or even 13.

I WAS 20 YEARS OLD.

It appears that I was actually an adult at the time of that episode’s viewing and it also appears that I was a complete sissy.

In my defense, though, Fox never re-aired the episode because it was so insane and freaked people out so much. It wasn’t just me. But I can no longer use my age as a defense. I mean, I must have watched it in my dorm room in college. My memory is completely faulty, and I’m told as you age, that’s the second thing to go. I can’t remember the first. *Ba-dum tsssss.*

I’m going to go scream into a pillow now

 

The events of today have just about killed me. I am in such a state that I don’t know what to do with myself, so I’m going to rage blog and hope that by the time I’m done, I will no longer feel the need to destroy something.

My husband and I cleaned out our basement a week ago and decided to sell a bunch of things that we no longer needed, i.e. DVD player, old speakers, other components, etc. He put them on eBay and they sold. His part was done. My nightmare was just beginning.

Today was the day I had to send out six different boxes full of stuff. Some of the components needed brand new boxes, some had been stored in the original boxes but needed to be wrapped up in plain brown paper before they were mailed, others needed to be bubble wrapped and sealed up, you get the idea.

My day began bright and early at 9 am at Target, where I bought packing tape rolls, bubble wrap, plain brown paper for mailing, among some other things. Target didn’t have a big enough box for one of the items, so I hit the UPS store and spent even more money.

Two of the six packages were in my car. I went to the post office and mailed them. The third component we were selling was still in my car, unboxed and un-bubble-wrapped; I didn’t want to go home, box it all up, and go back to the post office, so I tried to tape up the new GIANT box and pack up the component in the back seat of my car. That didn’t work out too well. There wasn’t enough room. So after throwing out a few f-bombs, I went inside the post office and got it all done in there. Fine.

After lunch I wrapped up and boxed the other three items. It took FOREVER. I’m not even exaggerating. I had to shove the boxes full of bubble wrap, wrap them up with plain brown paper, cut down boxes to fit around the items more securely, I can’t even tell you how annoying this was. One hour later, I was done.

I had to get the boxes into the car. Did I mention they were like 50 lbs each? I pushed and I pulled and I managed to get them all in my trunk even though by this point my back was screaming at me and asking me WTF I thought I was doing lifting all this crap by myself.

I arrived at the post office. I went inside to ask for a cart. They provided one. I wheeled it out to my car, with some difficulty since the cart was at least 100 years old, and started to load the three giant boxes inside it. They wouldn’t all fit securely, but I was NOT making another trip for this, so I made it work. I had to wheel the stupid cart all the way to the side of the building where the sidewalk ramp was. I got stuck numerous of times. I ran over my foot with the wheel twice. One of the packages started to fall and I caught it in midair. I was swearing very loudly. The cart wheel got caught three times in sidewalk cracks and it almost killed me.

I finally got up to the door and this guy, who was talking on his phone via an earpiece, walked into the building a few feet ahead of me. He let the door close behind him. Yes, THIS MOTHERF*CKER DID NOT HOLD THE DOOR FOR ME. I was so enraged that I literally screamed out, “THANKS, DUDE!” sarcastically and waved at him.

A nice elderly lady witnessed the whole thing. I told her how rude the man was. She held open the door for me. She was nice.

I went to wait in line inside behind rude dude and texted my husband. I wrote things like, “I am seriously about to cry and then murder this asshole who slammed the door in my face,” as well as, “This is my second trip to the post office and I will need corrective surgery on my back when this is all said and done and I hope that YOU’RE HAPPY.”

And then rude guy gets off his phone call and has the AUDACITY to turn to me and say, “I was wondering how you were going to get all those boxes in here.”

WHAT. THE. F*CK.

I turned to him, flexed my bicep, and said, “I DID IT WITH OLD-FASHIONED MUSCLE.” Then I pounded his face.

No, I didn’t punch him, but I wanted to.

Then he thought it was a good idea to continue the conversation and said, “You wouldn’t have wanted me to help you anyway. You don’t want me near you.”

Again, I refrained from breaking his nose. I gritted my teeth and asked, “Why is that?” He proceeded to tell me that he’s had the flu, has lost 15 lbs., had a flu shot, but got sick from traveling on airplanes. Like I was interested in his life story.

At this point, I’m done. I can’t even with him. He goes up to the counter, does his business, and then makes a point of saying goodbye to me before he walks out the door. I’m not sure what part of my body language, attitude, or spoken words encouraged him into thinking we had some kind of friendly relationship, but apparently that’s what he got from me.

I think that’s about it. I hope the rest of the day is better. I think I’ll go fill a bathtub full of ice cubes and get this swelling in my back to go down.

 

It’s on like Donkey Kong

I didn’t have a photo of me from class, but this is pretty much what I look like when I’m doing Krav Maga.

I don’t want to alarm anyone, but I’m kind of dangerous now. I enrolled in Krav Maga, so you can pretty much bring it on at any time. Just kidding, don’t bring it on because I’ve only attended three classes so far.

For those of you who aren’t familiar, Krav Maga is a military self-defense and fighting system developed by the Israeli Defense Forces. It utilizes techniques from boxing, wrestling, Judo, Karate, and street fighting. It’s basically opening a can of whoop-ass on somebody.

Things are going okay so far. One of the problems I’ve encountered though is that I look absolutely hideous in the outfit they’ve given me for class. Everything is way oversized and I have such a small frame that it just does not work on me. I went up to the owner on the second day of class and had a conversation that went like this:

Me: “So do we have to wear the pants you gave us to class?”

Him: “Um…why?”

Me: “Because they’re falling off me.” (This is kind of a lie; the elastic waist is fine, but the rest of the pant is gigantic and extremely unflattering and I really, really cannot be seen in public like this.)

Him: “They’re supposed to be big. It’s so you can move around easily.”

Me: “Okay, but do I have to wear them??”

Him: (looking confused, because I have no doubt that I am the first person who has brought this up to him ever and he has his black belt in Krav Maga and I am positive that he just can’t even with me.) “Well, you should wear them every once in a while.”

Me: “Okay! Thanks!” (skipping into class)

The other problem that I’ve encountered is that I pretty much vacillate between hungering to be the toughest, most brutal student in the class and being scared out of my mind of some of the other students who are giant men.

For example, today we did a drill in which one person holds a bag (it’s like a cushion with handles) and the other person punches the bag. At the end of the drill, I see the instructor handing out Band-Aids. Some guys punched the bag so hard that they split their knuckles open and started bleeding. I was pissed because apparently I did not work hard enough; my knuckles were red and irritated, but not yet cracking. Fortunately, later in the afternoon, I did notice a bruise on my hand, which made me feel slightly better, but I can’t quite let go of today’s subpar performance.

There are also times, however, in which I’m terrified and want to collapse into a fetal position and start crying. Like there are these drills where everyone in the class has to attack you and it is literally a nightmare come true. The instructor also encourages us to look menacing during a particular drill if we are the attacker. When one of the giant man-students that is typically super nice and jokey with me turns into scary attacker man, I kind of have a panic attack. And end up saying something like, “Wow, you look really scary!” or something similar that I’m hoping will cut some of the tension.

Otherwise, I am really enjoying Krav Maga. It’s a great workout and it’s way more fun than doing a muted YouTube work-out video by myself in my house while watching The Golden Girls. I’m hoping my husband reads this post, as he believes all I do in class is run around on mats, putting myself in a fighting stance and screaming, “KRAV MAGA!” at the top of my lungs over and over.