The life of a pincher

On Saturday mornings, we like to wake up early. Really early. From there, we clear everything out of the family room, move all the furniture to the sides, and then proceed to change into our full-body spandex suits.

We're fans of mixed martial arts--UFC, if you will. But we like to make it appear more like WCW, thus the full body suits. And a Hulk Hogan wig/moustache combo for him. Anyway, how it usually goes, is that he changes faster and waits downstairs. Somehow, I sneak attack down the stairs, jump from the middle stair, and deliver a people's elbow straight to his chest. But he's tough, so he can take it after a little wheezing. From there, there's some kickboxing, freestyle punching (sometimes rapping included), grappling and general tomfoolery.

But you know it's getting serious when I get him in a headlock, and he somehow reverses it so I'm in the headlock, and not only that, my entire body is pinned.

Except my hands.

And you know what comes next? The pinches. I pinch the skin on the back of his arm, his side, maybe the skin on his calf. Areas with a little more meat... the sting sticks there. My best friend taught me the art of the spanish pinch in middle school--grabbing the opponent's skin between the second knuckles of the thumb and pointer finger and twisting--though I hardly ever use it except in times of dire need. This is not dire need. I do not use it.

However, he doesn't tap out. He releases his hold, stands up, and quits the fight.

"You pinched!" He says.

"I had no other choice," I say. "It's all I've got. You're so much stronger than me."

"But you don't have to pinch. You can tap out!" He says.

I will not tap out. Pinching is the way to go. I am the winner because he is the quitter. This is how it goes. It is the tragic, yet somehow triumphant life of a pincher.




Oh, I made this entire story up, except for the pinching parts. And the wrestling. We do that sometimes. Also, the dialogue might have been true to form. We also watch UFC Fight Night from time to time--his choice. But I swear I don't own any spandex.