I like to humor myself with the belief that I can bust out one hell of a jab-cross-hook combination, which is probably why I will—on very rare occasion, after a few too many beverages—threaten to throw down with a stranger in a bar.
However, when it comes down to stepping up, I refrain from violence primarily because even in an inebriated state, reality suggests that a cardio kickboxing aerobics class is not practice round for a bona fide bar fight. I’m still smart like that because I’ve never been knocked out by a jab-cross-hook combination.
Hold on there, Lou. Back up a minute. What about that stranger in the bar? Why threaten to fight him or her in the first place?
Well, first off, it’s never a “her.” Girl-on-girl violence is so tacky. It’s always a “him.” And obviously “he” or his maleness or his representation of his gender has in some way provoked me at that moment or in general… And yes, this suggests that I may have an anger management problem, but only when it comes to boys. So—worst-case scenario—it’s like half an anger management problem.
The black eye on my life remains my apparent predisposition to man-hating… where did it come from... why did it chose me... or why I did chose it? Perhaps it was the Mary Daly book I read in college that I wasn’t quite radical feminist or lesbian enough to actually understand and/or process. It’s likely her message of female righteousness seeped into my subconscious, but laid dormant... until, upon witnessing some random act of male douchebagery, I was activated as one of her warriors.
It’s a theory.
It’s not necessarily a good one.
Stick with me, readers. This is all headed somewhere, I promise.