Because When You Type Fast It Looks Like Your Fingers Are Dancing

5
May
My Dance With Danger I’ve planned for this day my whole life. Everyone has. Or every woman. We’ve taken self defense lessons, been to the shooting range, and received email forwards addressed to “all the women in your life.” I’ve been prepared to encounter a perpetrator since my first Billy Blanks class. I always imagined it going down differently: Perp approaches me in a dark alley, I thrust my palm into his nose rendering him unconscious, and then I flee for the police.Well it didn’t happen that way. Not at all. There were no weapons. It was bright. I was on the bus, filled with passengers, in the Upper East Side at 8PM. While I was seated, a man ran up behind my seat, leaned over me, and grabbed my cell phone. I quickly turned around expecting to see a friend playing a practical joke, but instead saw a living, breathing, swine. My adrenaline caused me to yank back. His arm brushed up against my face. We tugged for what seemed like forever. His hands were gnarled around mine. I was too scared to look at him. He gave up and belted out a loud brute-like “damn” before escaping the bus. I scrambled to get my things so I could get the hell out of dodge and a passenger stopped me. “Don’t get off, he’s waiting right outside.” I sat lifeless in my seat. People were talking to me and amongst themselves. My vision was blurred as I fought back tears and I just stared at the dirty windows. Did that just happen? Did someone just try and rob me? I wanted so badly to sit there like a tough guy, but all I could think about was collapsing. Nothing happened, I was OK—why was I reacting like such a, well, girl? Now that I’m home safe and all cried out a million thoughts are running through my head: I know better than to fight a robber, what if he had a weapon? And here is where my mind is at now: I have more mace than I know what to do with, I’ve spent a considerable portion of my life in the weight room (which perhaps is what helped me ward off the robbery) and many of my high school memories are of me pretending to “appear” mean so girls would stop trying to fight me. If I had to guess, I’d say I don’t carry myself like an easy target. Why me? Why did this guy pick me? I’m reassessing things.

My Dance With Danger

I’ve planned for this day my whole life. Everyone has. Or every woman. We’ve taken self defense lessons, been to the shooting range, and received email forwards addressed to “all the women in your life.”


I’ve been prepared to encounter a perpetrator since my first Billy Blanks class. I always imagined it going down differently: Perp approaches me in a dark alley, I thrust my palm into his nose rendering him unconscious, and then I flee for the police.
Well it didn’t happen that way. Not at all.


There were no weapons. It was bright. I was on the bus, filled with passengers, in the Upper East Side at 8PM. While I was seated, a man ran up behind my seat, leaned over me, and grabbed my cell phone. I quickly turned around expecting to see a friend playing a practical joke, but instead saw a living, breathing, swine. My adrenaline caused me to yank back. His arm brushed up against my face. We tugged for what seemed like forever. His hands were gnarled around mine. I was too scared to look at him. He gave up and belted out a loud brute-like “damn” before escaping the bus.


I scrambled to get my things so I could get the hell out of dodge and a passenger stopped me. “Don’t get off, he’s waiting right outside.”


I sat lifeless in my seat. People were talking to me and amongst themselves. My vision was blurred as I fought back tears and I just stared at the dirty windows. Did that just happen? Did someone just try and rob me? I wanted so badly to sit there like a tough guy, but all I could think about was collapsing. Nothing happened, I was OK—why was I reacting like such a, well, girl?


Now that I’m home safe and all cried out a million thoughts are running through my head: I know better than to fight a robber, what if he had a weapon?


And here is where my mind is at now: I have more mace than I know what to do with, I’ve spent a considerable portion of my life in the weight room (which perhaps is what helped me ward off the robbery) and many of my high school memories are of me pretending to “appear” mean so girls would stop trying to fight me. If I had to guess, I’d say I don’t carry myself like an easy target. Why me? Why did this guy pick me?


I’m reassessing things.