The Curse of the Romanovs...

Most guys will understand this and be able to identify with it to some degree. I doubt that many women will.

I was an avid student of martial arts in my late twenties and early thirties. Tae Kwon do and Jiu-Jitsu. One of my housemates back then, a Gung fu guy, used to play fight with me quite frequently. We would run around the lake that our place backed up to, barefoot, in full gi, in the middle of the night. Stopping at the town center to fight with sticks, the concussions of them hitting each other sounded like gunshots bouncing off of the commercial buildings surrounding us. That probably got a few people out of bed to peek out of their windows, trying to make sense of it as they looked out at  two escapees from a bad Chinese martial arts movie, fighting furiously at 3AM.

All my adult life I’ve been involved with some form of physical training, distance running, circuit training, free weights, a gym rat since college. So when Mixed Martial Arts and the UFC came along in the early 1990’s, I became a huge fan and developed a stronger practical knowledge of “how” to fight, even if I no longer trained in fighting specifically. I’ve always been confident in my own ability to defend myself.  That confidence only increased when I started collecting and carrying tactical fighting knives more than 20 years ago.

But the fitness regimen gets harder to stick with as I get older, and the other side of that coin has always been my extreme love for ganja, beer, and good food. It’s a balancing act that is increasingly hard to balance.

I started working-out less frequently and began to get soft, physically and mentally. My confidence took a nose dive as I felt less like a man walking through life with strength and self-confidence, as I always had in the past.

A nasty knee injury two years ago, and the discovery that I have a genetic propensity for blood clots that had conspired to kill me, combined to put a severe crimp in my style.

I knew that I simply had to work harder at being fit. These days, the knee is rehabbed, and I’m back in the gym. The blood clots are easily controlled with thinners, and I feel pretty damn good for a guy turning 70.

But a guy has to know his limitations, right? Even if I was pushed to the wall, I can no longer afford to defend myself. I can’t fight back. With the blood thinners, I’m like a hemophiliac Romanov, a bleeder. My blood wont clot so I have to be extra careful to never give it reason to see the light of day. It needs to stay inside me. Besides, if I fall, I may break a hip and be put in a home and have to eat unsalted soft food for the rest of my days, rocking in my chair and making gurgling sounds. Not good.

But here’s the key. The main defensive and offensive weapon we all have is our brain. Know how to avoid trouble and get out of it if it ambushes you. Use your head, and I don’t mean with a head butt.

Recently though, I was elated to find this statute on the books in this great state of Florida. I now carry multiple copies to hand out to any attacker before they attack. They may want to think twice before I hurt their fist with my nose.

A Florida Statute:
ASSAULT; BATTERY; CULPABLE NEGLIGENCE

784.08 Assault or battery on persons 65 years of age or older; reclassification of offenses; minimum sentence.—

(1) A person who is convicted of an aggravated assault or aggravated battery upon a person 65 years of age or older shall be sentenced to a minimum term of imprisonment of 3 years and fined not more than $10,000 and shall also be ordered by the sentencing judge to make restitution to the victim of such offense and to perform up to 500 hours of community service work. Restitution and community service work shall be in addition to any fine or sentence which may be imposed and shall not be in lieu thereof.

And even more good news? It doesn’t matter if the attacker knows if you are over 65 or not.

This opens a whole new world of geriatric possibilities for me. When I’m feeling foggy, I may just wade into a restaurant crowd and start calling guys that look at me funny, nasty names. “Hey you, semen breath! Yea, you with the dog-faced girl. I’m talking to you!”

Then I stick the Florida statute promising a 3-year minimum sentence if they lay a hand on me into their breast pocket and walk away.

I just hope none of them are concealed carry types. If it were me, I would just go ahead and shoot the asshole in the back, statute or no statute.

But if an assault does happen, after the attacker serves his three years, he will still have to “make restitution to the victim of such offense”. Me!

My plan is to make him come to my house every day for a year and in front of my family and invited guests, get down on the floor, make pig sounds, and say: “Iggie Wiggie, I’m a Piggie!”

I believe in handling such things with maturity and class.