Stabbing Eight-Year-Olds

For the holidays, my wife gave me fencing lessons.  I have been whining for years about how I should get back into fencing, how I loved it in college, blah blah blah.  The thrill of being outdoors, digging holes, securing posts, painting...  Wait, sorry, wrong fencing.

I took three semesters of fencing (two foil classes and one saber class) as an undergrad at UT back in the day.  Interestingly, these classes were part of the core curriculum of an undergraduate business education at the University of Texas.  As was Corporate Raiding 101, Advanced Marketing of Things That Will Kill People, and Basic Computer Language (it was the mid-eighties after all).

10  START
20  GO TO 30
30  IF N = "Random Aside", THEN Next

By the way, the Basic computer language is still useful to this day, and is the reason I call myself "bi-lingual."

 40  ELSE = Get Back to Story

So, I pick an "Instructor-led class" at the Fencing Academy and arrive ready to thrust, parry, and other vaguely sexually suggestive fencing maneouvers.  Except, the "open" class for "all ages" is really comprised of fifteen children.  And not just the "children" term that I use when describing people who look too young to be driving, or to be giving me a prostate exam.  Actual six-year-olds.  And seven-year-olds.  And eight-year-olds.  And...up to about 13-year-olds, though the tall kid Jack might be pushing 14. 

I am filled with many questions as I go through the hour-long workout.

"Am I older than all of these children added together?"
"Do their parents think I'm some sort of perv looking to meet kids in fencing class?"
"Why didn't I remember how physically demanding this is?"
"Who will I tell my vaguely sexually suggestive jokes about thrusting to?"
"Have I really not exercised in the past 20 years?"
"How can I stab these children?"  Note - that one was more about me remembering how the sport worked, and less about any discomfort stabbing children.
"Is the room spinning for everyone?"

I survived.  And actually beat my opponent in open fencing at the end.  And no, she was not six.  Her name was Amanda, and she was likely around eight.  And she eventually stopped crying (about half-way home her mom reported to me the following week).  And yes, I did go back.  I get to stab eight-year-olds!

50 END