When I was a kid, I got beat up a couple of times by twins (a boy and a girl, known as The Infamous Birch Twins.) I was in fifth grade, they were in third. "How humiliating," you mutter between laughs. Not really, I just found it confusing. As they pinned me against a tree and started pummeling me, I remember thinking:
A. Why are they dong this?
B. How will beating me up make them feel better?
C. What the fuck??
The second time this happened, one of the neighborhood moms saw it and stopped it. And, being third graders, they really didn't inflict any noticeable wounds. But the whole incident left me bewildered.
You will notice, dear reader, that nowhere in this tale did I scream or cry for help or run and tell my mother. (Who, as we remember from The Legend of Cousin Ned, had the ability to inspire others to commit suicide.) The whole idea was so out of my realm of life-as-I-knew-it that I was in denial.
When I was a sophomore in college my soon-to-be-ex boyfriend threw me down the dorm hallway. (Granted, it wasn't just for shits and giggles, we had been fighting.) Then, at least, I had enough self-preservation to call my parents to come and get me. But I never confronted him about it, I just iced my bruises and never talked to him again. The whole incident seemed so surreal, I chose not to deal with it.
So it's no wonder that when the motorcycle gang stormed our play in December and started beating the shit out of the audience and cast, instead of getting out of the line of fire, like my friends were telling me to, I sat there, stunned, and thought, "Jesus Fucking Christ, really??? I am the wimpiest, most mild-mannered, peace-loving 61-year-old cunt in the Southeast and AGAIN someone's trying to beat the shit out of me???"
Okay, Karma, you've had your three chances. Next time....NEXT TIME.....oh, hell, I'll probably just do nothing again. The Wimp is strong with this one.
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