It hit me today, all-of-a-sudden (that should really be a word of its own, because it wants to be said faster than the rest of the sentence - what? doesn't everyone hear the words in their head as they write them?), that I need to start using the happy light. It's later this year than it hit me last year, maybe because this has been a long, sunny fall, but there it was, today: I need the happy light.
Last year, it arrived at the end of October, the week before I left for Vietnam. One day, everything was just Too Much. Today, the same. I had three conversations in a row that were frustrating, and suddenly I wanted to put my head down and give up, and it wasn't until later, driving home after FIGHT class, that I realized why I wanted to give up, why everything was just Too Much.
Happy light, I welcome you.
FIGHT class, though, was as amazing as always. I think FIGHT class might be the best part of my week. Admittedly, the instructors have been working us extra hard lately, and I start to wonder if my allergist was right about the asthma (another fake disease!). "I call this the gift that keeps on giving!" one of the instructors said. "Now through Christmas, I am going to give you the gift of hard work." We were not exactly leaping for joy, although we did do a lot of leaping. FIGHT instructors think it is fun to have someone grab your leg, pull it up to waist level and hit you with their other hand while you hop and try to block their blows.
Normal people disagree.
Nonetheless, that class is one of my favorite things. I feel so strong and not-helpless after I'm done, because the same things keep repeating and so, after a few months of class, I find that disarming someone with a gun to my head is almost natural, even though I've never done it before. Last week, I was practicing disarming the instructor, and I kept not even getting to the stage where you snap the gun out of the person's hand, because it practically flew out of his hand and into mine just from the way I pulled him off balance.
That made no sense if you don't know the disarming techniques. Just trust me: I was almost too good. It's nice to feel good at something sports-like, for a girl who sat the bench all three years of high school soccer. (Loved it; sucked at it. Story of my sporting life.)
Last year, it arrived at the end of October, the week before I left for Vietnam. One day, everything was just Too Much. Today, the same. I had three conversations in a row that were frustrating, and suddenly I wanted to put my head down and give up, and it wasn't until later, driving home after FIGHT class, that I realized why I wanted to give up, why everything was just Too Much.
Happy light, I welcome you.
FIGHT class, though, was as amazing as always. I think FIGHT class might be the best part of my week. Admittedly, the instructors have been working us extra hard lately, and I start to wonder if my allergist was right about the asthma (another fake disease!). "I call this the gift that keeps on giving!" one of the instructors said. "Now through Christmas, I am going to give you the gift of hard work." We were not exactly leaping for joy, although we did do a lot of leaping. FIGHT instructors think it is fun to have someone grab your leg, pull it up to waist level and hit you with their other hand while you hop and try to block their blows.
Normal people disagree.
Nonetheless, that class is one of my favorite things. I feel so strong and not-helpless after I'm done, because the same things keep repeating and so, after a few months of class, I find that disarming someone with a gun to my head is almost natural, even though I've never done it before. Last week, I was practicing disarming the instructor, and I kept not even getting to the stage where you snap the gun out of the person's hand, because it practically flew out of his hand and into mine just from the way I pulled him off balance.
That made no sense if you don't know the disarming techniques. Just trust me: I was almost too good. It's nice to feel good at something sports-like, for a girl who sat the bench all three years of high school soccer. (Loved it; sucked at it. Story of my sporting life.)
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