As It Should Be

I've been accused on occasion of living in a fantasy world. Yeah? So what?

Ok, I realize it might not seem healthy if, for instance, I come to work and in my mind I'm Xena Warrior Princess and I'm all breast-platey and sword-weilding and, as people approach me in the hallway, I am raising my sword over my head and swinging it 360 degrees and chopping off their heads as they walk by with their morning cup of coffee. But seriously, I don't carry it quite that far. Unless a ducked head and mumbled "good morning, Hasan, how are you?" could be considered head-chopping.

And really, can you see me in a breastplate? If I was wearing a breastplate, it would likely not have geometric romaney swirls on the cups; more likely, there would be wisteria trailing from one cup to the other and ending in a delicate swirl around one nipple. And instead of being made out of pounded metal it would be made from...em, gossamer, spider-spun since this is my fantasy and, in it, spiders are my friends. Not very protective in a "save me from a dagger to the heart" sort of way, but with a yet-to-be-discovered protective power every bit as strong.

And I would hardly carry a broadsword; have you felt my arm muscles?? They aren't of course non-existent, but darned close and I'm fairly certain a sword, broad or not-so-broad, is well beyond my capabilities to hold over my head and swing 360 degrees. There's the very real possibility that I would drop it on my own head and cleave myself in two. And I'm pretty sure the world, fantasy or real, could not handle two of me.

No worries though, my strength is in my legs which are, of course, uncovered in my fantasy, no surprise there, uncovered and unblemished and without a speck of cellulite because cellulite comes from eating potato chips and in my fantasy I eat air and sun and music. And these three combine to make a perfect pair of long, firm well-tanned legs that are capable of outrunning any opponent and thus just as good a weapon as a broadsword. Retreat is not my enemy; it is a well-beloved friend to both me and my opponent even if my opponent doesn't think so.

Of course, there are times when retreat is not a viable alternative; a wily opponent might very well back me up against a rock, a strong arm (much stronger than mine, which isn't saying a whole lot) locked across my wistering-around-the-nipple spider-thin gossamer breastplate (by the way, in my fantasy, the design on my breastplate is very much alive and moving, it grows and blooms and withers and seeds and grows again), sword-arm raised to strike the death blow. In these instances, running won't get me out of the jam, so I will have to employ other life-saving techniques. And since it is my fantasy world, it will be my eyes that save me at this point.

From this close range, my opponent will look into my eyes, noticing that they are not brown at all as first appeared, but rather green with a ring of orange around them. Startled because I am not at all what he thought I was, he will drop his sword-arm, and his hand will move up my gossamer breastplate, and his fingers will trace the curve of my chin and his thumb will caress the fullness of my lower lip and he will lean forward, sword at his side and kiss me with incredible delicacy, then again with power and strength, and we will consider each other symultaneously conquered and victorious, and we'll walk hand-in-hand to a bed made of the softest moss and I will show him just how strong my leg muscles are and he will show me just how broad his sword is.

And the wisteria will bloom in rapid profusion and riotous color on the discarded breastplate, and neither I nor my opponent will take the least heed as this is as it should be.