I haven’t been grading papers, or preparing for class, or lecturing, or flitting through aethereal realms: I’ve been fighting. Mostly, I’ve been getting beat up, and loving it.

My life as a grumpy academic had to give, and so I took up the martial arts. Inspired less by the Bruce Lees and Jackie Chans of the world, I noticed that I was getting soft–or, softer. Softening. Softening. Slowing. Down. And actually kicking someone else’s ass–only if he deserved it, of course–or having the ability to do so, has been one of my fondest fantasies. My quest these past years: to take this waifish soporific bookish body and turn it into a weapon.

Thus the martial arts. Thus the bruising.

Even though my kung fu is average at best, and my jui jitsui even less so, I believe that I am ready. I now know some of the rudiments of the fight. I think that I can hold my own against the average opponent. I no longer have passing fears of my fellow man, knowing as I do that given the opportunity I just might be able to take him out. I almost look forward to it.

I have a fantasy that I can bring my new skills to campus. Such as when I have to take out the mouth breather who has my suite mate intimidated because he is bigger and louder than she. It’s a rescue fantasy, I know. Perhaps I’m the one who wants to be rescued. And yet. There is something delightful about physically dominating the young cocky ones, so easy is it to dominate them otherwise.

I have a fantasy, yes. But I have the bruises that prove I live in the world, too.