there's nothing like getting punched in the face

I'm overrun with pet projects. "Specialization is for insects" that's what Heinlein says. I don't see myself letting up on this self imposed heavy work load of eclectic hobbies any time soon. I can't bring myself to apply a laser like focus to any one thing. It's a dilettante's life for me.

One draw back of a life dedicated to broad competency rather than singular mastery is that sometimes your skills get juxtaposed with someone who is a master (at least in comparison to yourself) and consequently you are severely schooled, flunk and get sent to detention. And your mum starts crying when she finds out.

I was doing a bit of ye olde sparring a few weeks back... I fancy myself a burly man. A throw back to the days when men were men and women were subjugated. Oh man, those were the days. (important note: I have developed an alleged sense of humour that is a little zany, a lot deadpan and sometimes inexcusably offensive, sorry ladies). I'm the strong silent type, the kind of guy that only communicates in inaudible grunts and enjoys chopping wood even though it hurts the environment, maybe for that reason... So, I was boxing against some dude who knows how to box and I was just a heavy sparring virgin. Did he go gentle 'cause it was my first time? Hell no. I got epically owned.

I usually look better than this. Getting punched in the face has a habit of upsetting the delicate balance of one's generally well placed features. Notice the broad swelling of the nose, the day after's double black eyes. My poor poor beautiful face.

A couple of weeks and one glute injury later, and I've slowly been working my way back into fight training. I had to admit to myself due to the undeniable arse whooping that I took previously, that I've quickly developed a phobia for getting in "the pocket" (close enough proximity so that you can hit and get hit) and mixing it up with my opponents even in lighter versions of sparring. And I'm not scared of anything except, air bourne diseases, 3 legged cats, oompa loompas and my receding hairline. Like practically nothing. And clowns. Oh and now the pocket. Pathetic really. Accepting that you've got a problem is the first step to recovery I suppose.

The temptation is to knuckle down now, train up and seek for the bitter sweet taste of revenge. Except that the guy that destroyed me is my teammate, I'm a teddy bear, don't believe in revenge and I've got a lot of other things on me agenda anyway. Looks like I'll have to get used to looking like I just ran into a brick wall for the foreseeable future. If that's the type of sacrifice it takes to be somewhat pretty decent but not remotely near the best at something, then so be it.

Fuckin' scary as hell