Directing Dogs

After 10 hours on my feet direct­ing epee fencers of all shapes, sizes and lev­els of attrac­tive­ness, my knees are small novas of pain. It is fas­ci­nat­ing how much nicer fencers are when you’re a direc­tor. Espe­cial­ly the females. Today I was com­pli­ment­ed on my scarf [mom-knit­ted!], my style [what!?], my pro­nun­ci­a­tion of Dumas [although I ini­tial­ly mis­pro­nounce Slutz due to a miss­ing umlaut], and my glass­es [wtf?]. That’s not includ­ing all the smoky looks and shy smiles as well. Fencer girls…

I prob­a­bly just had some­thing on my face the whole time.

I ran into so many old fencers from my time on the team, it was great to vis­it with them and trade old war sto­ries. The last rem­nants of peo­ple that I knew are grad­u­at­ing this year. I’m already long for­got­ten. Glo­ry is fleet­ing. [Even though I did­n’t pro­vide much of it.]

Tomor­row is the team com­pe­ti­tion, which goes a bit faster and won’t pro­vide me with as many temp­ta­tions to let flirt­ing with a pret­ty red­head from IU or a raven-haired blue-eyed ND fencer influ­ence my deci­sions. Like I’d ever let that hap­pen.