Birthday Fight Nights

Yesterday was my birthday. I am now officially closer to 40 than I am to 30. I find this somewhat depressing, especially considering I have achieved exactly ZERO of my goals in life.  Unless you consider being a World Champion procrastinator and injury procurer, in which case, I am living the damn high life.

I have been looking forward to this weekend FOREVER. Husbro and I were going to go to a Fight Night and cheer on a dude who goes to the same Muay Thai place that we do. Here’s a thing that you may not know about me. I LOVE fighting. Fighting is legit one of my favouritest things in the world and I adore going to fight nights. I cringe in horror when it’s people I know fighting and shriek and gasp any time someone has the temerity to touch them, flapping my arms about like some useless tit, but outside of that I am into the bloodlust. I love it when the underdog pulls out some bitching moves and mows down the favourite,  I love it when the undefeated suddenly loses and I love it when they are absolutely too close to call.  I don’t enjoy the KOs so much, but that’s partly the medical background speaking and partly me thinking how I would totally hate it if it were me.

So, my plan was: Mum babysits the kid. Husbro is my DD. I have a great night and get a bit of my drunk on while watching attractive men beat the crap out of each other (this is basically a perfect night for me).

ALAS! TRAGEDY STRIKES!

My mother, who moved in with me, to allegedly assist looking after the kid, after I told her this was the plan, decided to not bother requesting the night off work and naturally gets rostered on and can’t find anyone to swap with her. This is the ONLY time in the entire year plus she has been here that I actually needed her to babysit and she screwed the pooch. Un-fucking-believable. The fight, as it turns out, was kid-friendly, but kid would definitely not have been OK to go.

My husbro, supposed to be my damn designated driver, decides to go off and meet his bodybuilding/gym hero who miraculously showed up in town and train with him. My husbro, the introverted man who spends 90% of his time gaming and the other 10% in the gym (it’s super hot when I open the garage door while he’s doing pull ups, just a friendly FYI), went and socialised and then sprained his ankle doing backflips (yeah you read that right) and then did is back trying to outlift the other guys on a deadlift. He’s basically a cripple and has less mobility than a frail 99 year old woman with osteoporosis and a fresh hip replacement. Definitely can’t drive.

THEN! I wake up yesterday in a puddle of my own mucous. I have been struck down with some kind of magical fuck-you-cold-flu-virus that not even every antihistamine I can find as well as all the pseudoephedrine in the world cannot attenuate.

I was beginning to think that it was my destiny to spend my birthday miserable, eating chips and necking wine from the bottle in front of the TV, which let’s face it, isn’t much different to any other day.

But some friends stepped up and took the kid overnight. Apparently she was a total angel and they thought it was great that she was teaching their kids about the solar system and being all big sisterly, meanwhile I was just glad to hear she was putting her bullshit expensive private school education to good use for a change, instead of back chatting me and arguing semantics like she usually does.

So I drove myself to fight night with the misophonic cripple in the passenger seat rolling his eyes every time I sniffed (approximately every 0.254 seconds because this schnoz is like a burst water main).

The 12 fights that were on were pretty evenly matched, which was a nice surprise. I’ve been to a few fights where the balance was clearly on one fighter and most would end in a single round. All bar two fights went all two/three rounds. The dude from our gym won his fight in a split decision. It was a pretty good fight to watch, he and his opponent were pretty closely matched, and his opponent & team pitched a bit of a bitch fit after they lost. Our dude was nicely humble and respectful to his opponent, which is what I want to see, not some chest beating idiot talking about what a fookin champ he is.

Then I came home and took a million more pills and had a shit sleep and 36 seems to be pretty shit so far.

But Husbro did get me a shiny new gaming keyboard which I have just plugged in and am testing out as I type this load of bollocks that nobody gives a shit about.

Peace out.

Me boxing gloves

Dis is me in my gym, practicing my fight moves so I can kick my 36th year in the teeth

2 thoughts on “Birthday Fight Nights

  1. Listen, I don’t game. Or watch fights. Or have a husbro who does both. But this blog post had me down and laughing. Hate that your 36th had such a crap start but hey, maybe that means all you can do is go up from there!

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