Thursday, July 15, 2010

Day 67: Warrior, I Define Thee

Orlando Bloom, I would gladly bear arms with your albino self.

What is a warrior? I looked up the meaning to see if I even come close to fitting the standard definition:

One who is engaged in or experienced in battle.
Hmmm.

In terms of physical scuffles, I've always been the peace-loving, bookwormish type, though I held my own with my brothers growing up, and I once pushed the bully on my JV soccer team into the showers in the gym after she gave me shit.

I have, however, been known to open a can of whoop-ass when the occasion warrants. I have a bit of a temper that I'm usually able to keep in check, but when it comes unleashed, beware all who enter my crazy-sphere. Most people who know me wouldn't think I have the capability of housing a mind-boggling fury that puts the wrath of Khan to shame (my husband would set these nonbelievers straight in about 10 seconds). But it's there, and it's not pretty. It's not really my fault, though: I come from a family of erratic-behavior enablers with short fuses who consider it some warped badge of honor whenever one of the clan flouts authority or sticks it to The Man.

In general, though, I can't really see myself in hand-to-hand combat in the field. I'm averse to pain, I tire easily, and I prefer the comfort of my bed to the rigors of battle. Windham Mountain is simply my temporary battlefield, and the other kooky competitors dressed in costume are my worthy fleeting adversaries.

You're going down -- all of you. But I'll gladly quaff a cold one with you after I administer my beat-down.

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