Iím so tired now. My karate routine is kicking my ass (ha ha).
Every Wednesday, Iím like this. Now I need a day of rest before I can be back to being what my friends affectionately call ďthe killing machine.Ē
I am not joking about that, but obviously they are.
This morning, my hands were shaking so bad that I almost couldnít put my mascara on. Itís not for any emotional reason. Last night, I was hitting a target. I donít know if itís my unusually long and slender limbs and hands or if itís everyone, but my hands never take kindly to repeatedly being driven into a punching bag.
A couple of months ago, I finally managed what I would consider to be a perfect punch. Perfect, because with the right technique, I can drive with as much force as my entire body weight (or possibly more) concentrated into two knuckles, while maintaining perfect balance and setting myself up for the next move.
Granted, my body weight is nothing impressive, but we work with what weíre given. Last night, the perfect punch eluded me, and I still have shaky hands, anyway.
If youíre wondering how or why itís taken me 6 years to come up with a good punch, well, for one thing, not many teachers actually teach correct technique, and another, itís really, really hard.
Iíve relied on my legs a lot. For years, my punch has been a pathetic little sissy slap, but my kicks have always been good.
Rest, rest, rest and then I will continue my training in preparation for that inevitable off-world-alien invasion (obviously, the only thing that will give humans pause while killing each other).
Yesterday, I managed to explain to Adam that I still have no desire to speak to him without losing my temper at all. He seemed to accept it. I was so happy and relieved.
I did not have the most ideal possible responses, but they were acceptable responses, even good ones; I was mostly respectful and not the least bit hurtful.
He kept insisting that his constant pestering (six months of attempted contact almost every day, sometimes twice a day, every single one I ignored) was an attempted peace offering.
How that is a peace offering is beyond me. Unless he was thinking, ďShe must be trapped under something heavy and just out of reach of her keyboard. Iím doing her a grand favor by keeping up conversation while she attempts to free herself.Ē
I glossed over that. I would have rather said that from my perspective, when there is silence between us, we are at peace. Weíre free to live our lives as we choose in blissful ignorance of each other. Why is that not considered peace?
Maybe I am especially stupid to not have just blocked him right away, but for the most part, I would forget about it almost immediately, until recently, when it started getting more desperate. Ideally, I shouldnít ever have to force anything, but, obviously, that ideal canít always be fulfilled.
Heís an intelligent person, I would have thought being ignored long enough would be a clue, and if not that, then I would use reason. Plan B has been executed and if it proves to be ineffective, then Iíll be on to Plan C, which is blocking.
Everything he has said to me prior to our conversation was sufficiently annoying, but the ten minute conversation was thoroughly annoying. He was poised to start playing the victim before I showed even the tiniest sign of caring at all.
Not that I canít sympathize, I know how hard it is to be born into a super-rich family, attend the best schools, be nasty to the service staff and sit in a cushy office all day. I mean, my God, where is the humanity!?
Oops, ok, that was a little mean, but at least heís not around to read it. (Shhhhhhhh)
Well, now life is slightly better in one more way.
|Wednesday, Jul. 18, 2007 at 11:50 AM|