Dear Kim--Rachel, here. Well, Tara Wild really got me good. Last Saturday night, she and I were both at a work party for the summer interns. Word got out during, and before, the party that after the interns left, the women should stick around, where Tara Wild and I would "discuss" my keying her car. Even though it was a stifling hot summer evening, Tara Wild was wearing blue jeans and a leather jacket, with boots (?!?!?), while I was in a seasonally-appropriate tank top and miniskirt number. During the party, Tara Wild would come up behind me to slip in some name-calling, and I would register a protest at the inappropriateness at her attire selection, which generated a chuckle from her smug face. There were a couple times I thought the full audience would get the benefit of viewing our "discussion", but we somehow resisted, or were separated just-in-time by the select women in the company who wanted their private viewing of the show. I spent the rest of the time stewing about how exposed my body was, relative to Tara Wild's fortress-like protection, which supplemented her already-glaring physical dominance. As the party thinned out, Tara Wild, about 7 women, and I retired to an empty bedroom in our host's luxury condo. Without much discussion, Tara Wild squared up, and engaged in a fight almost the opposite of the full-contact brawl I had been envisioning. Tara Wild used her reach advantage to keep me at a distance, and methodically picked me apart with punches and, increasingly, kicks from her booted feet. I was unable to reach her face with the blows with my shorter arms, and any blows I directed at her mid-section harmlessly glanced off her leather coat. Tara Wild's sadistic grin widened as she started to score knockdowns. I was hoping she would move in for a clinch, and I could get our fight onto the floor; instead, any delay in my regaining my feet was met by vicious boot stomps to my prone body. Our audience was even more sadistic, rejoicing in every new cut or welt imposed on me by Tara Wild. Did I score a consolation victory by never giving during my half-hour long beating? I'd like to think so. But, Kim, my message to your readers is this: do not key the car of a woman who know how to fight.
Dear Rachel--well, at least you learned something. And accepted your lesson like a grown-up. And, I would like to direct my readers' attention to Tara Wild's leather coat-and-blue jean-and-boots ensemble; highly effective tools indeed when you know there will be or might be a fight. There's a reason that outfit never goes out of style, and it doesn't have to do with looks.
