This afternoon Shark Girl got on top of Husband. If you want to be technical, I was in mount.
“Try to get up,” I said. “It’s been a long time since we’ve wrestled.”
When I started BJJ, Husband wrestled with me periodically to check my progress. This resulted in a series of professed back injuries and whining, until Shark Girl couldn’t take it any more and just stopped the progress checks altogether.
“I know I can’t get up,” Husband said. “I’ve given up. It’s official: you can beat me up.”
I do have a long history of beating up boys. It all started in the third grade . . .
|Psychedelic Time Travel Picture (and optical illusion)|
When Shark Girl was in third grade, Mother of Shark Girl came home from the parent-teacher conference with some news for Dad.
“She scratched a boy,” Mom told him, chuckling.
She was laughing because here was this cute little, tiny girl, (Little Shark Girl was about the size of a kindergartener) beating up on boys. It was the family joke for some time. (Even today if you were to bring up this incident around the Extended Shark-Family dinner table, Brothers and Sisters would ROTF and L. Or L their FAO. Or maybe they would just LOL. I know they would do some acronym.)
Nowadays, a student scratching would be a huge deal, written up by school administrators. The perp would be forced into counseling, or Child Services would be brought in. Back then, Mother of Shark Girl only asked, “Why?”
“On the playground, Paul B— gave my friend Danielle half a chi-chi,” I explained. (A chi-chi is our familial term for the double butt squeeze often given to cute children’s bottoms.) But I wasn’t telling everything. When the lights were off in my and my sister’s room that night I whispered to her that the half chi-chi was not on Danielle’s backside, but actually Paul had grabbed her crotch. Little Shark Girl was defending Danielle’s honor.
Danielle moved to our school in third grade. I’ll never forget the first time she came into class. She was tall and pretty and blonde. When she walked into the room, everyone’s head turned her way. I felt a pang of jealousy. Why couldn’t I be blonde? Danielle wasn’t perfect. She licked her lips in our blustery winters, causing chapping that extended up to the base of her nose. It didn’t matter, though, she was blonde, and Little Shark Girl learned the hard lesson that tall and blond trumps cute, dark and short any day.
Up until Danielle came along, Paul had a crush on me. It was on that very same playground in second grade that Paul danced around me singing, “If I can’t have you, I don’t want nobody baby!” Little Shark Girl rolled her eyes and told him to get away. Maybe I scratched him then, too. If I didn’t, I should have.
Check out the song, plus the groovy 70s vibe!
I’ve come to terms with Paul and what happened in elementary school—both the sexual harassment and even being “dumped” for a blonde. (Believe me, I hadn’t seen the last of either experience.) So tonight when I heard “If I Can’t Have You” emanating from the Oldies station, my hand dropped from the buttons and I started singing along. Husband is not an Oldies fan, so to placate him Shark Girl said, “This song brings back memories,” and I told him the story about Paul B—.
“Humph,” Husband replied.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Well, I was just thinking. . . . If you had married Paul B—.”
“Well, if you had married Paul B—, not much would be different. You’d still be beating up on him!”
Thanks, Husband, for your vote of confidence.