The Fighting Limit
I’m guessing that everyone has a point at which they bow out of a fight.
Maybe it’s when they’re outnumbered ten to one, when the other guy’s holding a bazooka, when children are hostage, or maybe they’re just tired and will pass on this one.
Tonight, I discovered that I won’t fight my husband.
Okay, that’s a bit of an exageration. I have no problem with the kind of verbal sparring in which we ascertain that I did, indeed, say exactly what I claim I said. But, apparently, when I’m placed across from him in a sword-fighting ring, the fight goes right out of me.
This was a new and unexpected development. My competitive streak–especially in any kind of sparring ring–has seen me through thick and thin. I’ve fought three guys, all fresh, when I’m tired. I’ve fought guys that were in their prime and of a higher skill level. I’ve fought in on-going continous matches that went on for almost two hours without break. And through it all, when faced with an opponent I dig down inside and pull out that competitive instinct to see myself through.
But, not tonight.
Oh, I still went through the motions of sparring, but afterwards my husband wondered if I was sick, or just going easy on him. I was mildly embarrassed to answer that it was neither.