Sometimes, when I’m sore from running my heart out with zombies (for more info on that, look here: Zombies for the Troubled Writer Soul …
You see, sometimes when I’m tired out from running as my workout, I turn to a mirror and pretend to beat the shit out of villains and save the day.
I throw punches and perform roundhouse kicks with, probably, imperfect form. Roundhouses. Uppercuts. Jabs. Knee-kicks. Hooks.
I pretend I’m Lara Croft, Wonder Woman, Katniss Everdeen, goddamn Alana from the Lioness Quartet. I’m a demigod, a warrior, a queen. A super spy. A leading lady. A superhero. I’m a knight, a shadow, an assassin. The last Jedi. A witch. A demon turned for good.
I’m a world-saver, a back-breaker.
I spin and kick and fight in that mirror, but all I see are villains. Shadows in the night, invisible dangers they say lurk behind corners for us. Killers in disguise. People that haunt unsuspecting women just going about their lives. It makes me feel safer, even if the punch is improper, just to know I can throw one… however bad.
I see other things too. That moment that gave me anxiety to the point I tossed and turned at night. That stupid thing I said. The time I said sorry for hurting someone else’s feelings when the only feelings being hurt were mine. Hating myself for showing weakness. Crying. I don’t wanna cry when I’m supposed to fight. Forgetting it’s okay. It’s just emotion. Angry still that they ridiculed my clothes, my appearance. My fake geek status. Saying I’d get beat up if I were a man. I was lucky to be as “sarcastic” as I was as a woman.
All different moments. All made me angry. Sad and angry.
And strong.
Punch. Kick. My arms and legs are sore. I still don’t look like the people in the movies, but does that matter?
I stop, looking into the mirror. See myself again.
But no shadows. They’ve fled for now. But when they return, I’ll be waiting.
Ready to fight like a girl.
