It’s not easy being green, even if you aren’t a famous amphibian made out of foam

by Creative Junkie on February 23, 2011

You tested for your green belt last week, sweetie.

As if you forgot! As if you need me to remind you! As if I simply like to hear the sound of my own typing!

Maybe on that last one.

Don’t judge me.

It took good balance.

I’m not sure where you got yours from but if my frequent shouts of FOR GOD’S SAKE, WHO’S STUPID IDEA WAS IT TO TILT THE EARTH ON A FREAKING AXIS ANYWAY? when I was trying to hang up vinyl lettering on your bedroom wall was any indication, it didn’t come from me.

It took dedication. Like going to the dojo twice a week. And breathing in all the stink. And making sure your t-shirt was clean every single time so that the fresh stink of sweat didn’t overpower the stale stink of feet.

You were pretty dang dedicated too, pumpkin.

It took good listening skills and the ability to ignore the crazy lady with the camera in the audience calling out Helena! Over here! This way, sweetie! Can you hear me? I’m over here! I’LL COME OUT THERE AND TAKE A PICTURE IF I NEED TO, DON’T THINK I WON’T. You’re doing awesome, poops!

Selective hearing is underrated.

It took good form. And the ability not to pass out from touching your nose to sweaty equipment and breathing in the scent of the 4,987 sweaty noses that were there before you.

This might be a good time to fall to my knees and thank God that He didn’t birth you with the same issues as He did me.

How you got so lucky, I’m not sure. Maybe He was cranky on the day He birthed me. Maybe He wasn’t getting enough action. Or fiber.

Just curious … if I didn’t capitalize “he” when I refer to The Big Guy, would I burn in Hell for all eternity?

It took great aim.

I  must say, I find it ironic that you manage a blind strike upon a relatively small target from behind with pinpoint accuracy yet you still manage to miss the ginormous sink directly in front of your face when spitting out toothpaste.

Kind of like how I can point my camera right at you and totally miss the hat directly in my line of vision, the gray and pink one that is screaming I AM AN IRRITATING DISTRACTION THAT WILL SOON CAUSE YOUR LEFT EYE TO TWITCH. YOU JUST DON’T KNOW IT YET.

I pity the fool that tries to get to second base with you when you’re thirty and just starting to date.

It’s always a little unnerving at the end of testing, isn’t it? Did you do enough? Was your form excellent? Could you have done better? Did you make it? Did you fail?

OH MY GOD, WILL WE STILL GO OUT FOR PANCAKES AFTERWARD?

The pressure was unbearable.

Probably for you too, sweetie.

This. This right here. When you look down and catch sight of your new belt.

I swear I swell up with so much pride, I look like I’m retaining the Colorado River.

Just call me Hoover Dam.

So so so stinkin’ proud of you, peanut.

My baby is half way to black belt.

About another year and a half, maybe two years to go before we can do our part to perpetuate an urban legend and find an imaginary registrar’s office to certify your hands and feet as lethal weapons.

In the meantime, it means another eighteen to twenty four months of letting your face get within millimeters of having a plantar wart explode all over it.

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