I have never been one for watching fights, least of all the all-in, go-for-the-jugular kind — cage fights or mixed martial arts, which lack even the elephants’-ballet grace of boxing. Only now I have a crush. Yike.
I looked up from the bike at the gym and they were recapping this event. Women’s Ultimate Fighting. Half of me says it’s about time and the other half says, oh great, so now women get to incur Parkinson’s from chronic concussion and have their faces rearranged just like men, ain’t that progress.
But oh my god, the arms and shoulders on this woman. Who lost; don’t care. She had pared down for the match — the little bit of fleshiness that you see on her torso in parts of the video was gone, not that it was much to begin with, so that she looked like one of those faux-muscled robot destroyers that are popular in video games. It brought out the triceps. The lower lateral triceps. I wish to Bog that before I die, I can have the opportunity and gumption to train myself into triceps like that.
No ambition to hit anyone. Or rather, too much. One reason those fight sports put me off, I suspect, is the amount of self-restraint I’ve had to impose on myself in the years since I decided that being routinely rusticated for brawling in school was not a life plan. But it’s goddamned hard, because there are so many stupid, nasty people out there… and so little time.
I’ll just imagine being her.