No, I’m not confessing my aspirations of being a UFC champion. But, last night, I did dream that Hubby and I were supposed to participate in amateur mixed martial arts (MMA) fights.
Friends and family were in the stands and excitement was in the air. People were wishing me well and instead of getting psyched up, I was starting to get cold feet. I walked by a poster featuring the women’s bouts and I saw my competition. Massively huge women, if you could call them that, scary, steroid-inspired muscle-bound meanies scowling at the camera, their glares jumped off the page and down my throat. Then, there was my photo, my cheesy smile stuck out like a sore thumb.
“Oh my gosh, these women could knock me out and kill me,” I thought. I imagined myself being hit with the force of a wrecking ball and never waking up. Then, I determined that I had to forfeit my fight, wave the white flag, anything to get out of the pummeling I was sure to receive.
I sought out Hubby who was also getting ready for his fight. He looked like he was in top shape and ready to rumble. Other fighters were taping up their knuckles and shadow boxing in front of the mirrors.
“I can’t do it, Hubby,” I told him, feeling like a major cop-out.
“Don’t worry, you don’t have to. No one is forcing you to go through with it. Just find the ref and tell him you’re forfeiting. It shouldn’t be a problem,” he hugged me tightly and I knew that he loved me no matter what: wuss or not.
