Who Needs Pepper Spray When You've Got Jazz Hands?!

The neighborhood that I work in is not generally known as the best or safest area in the city to be walking through. It is smack in the middle of what my friend Katie refers to as "The Stabby District" of Rochester. For this reason, my father purchased a bottle of pepper spray for me to carry with me into work. Honestly, I was a little shocked at this, considering the fact that I once (true story) sprayed a bottle of Binaca breath spray directly into my eyes and was absolutely convinced that I had blinded myself. My Dad, however, explained to me that due to the special mechanics within the device, there was absolutely no way for me to spray this into my eyes, unless I somehow managed to either: a) hold it so awkwardly that it is actually pointing directly into my own face, or b) spray it in the right direction, but then run around to become the target of the blast. Feeling fairly self-assured that I would not be doing either one of those things, I started carrying the pepper spray around with me, just waiting for Hobo Harry to come up and start something.

Alas, Hobo Harry never came - most of the people outside my building seemed very content in minding their own business, but I knew that when that day came, I would be ready for them. I'm a very imaginative person and I have the tendency to play out different hypothetical scenarios in my head, even if the chance of them ever coming true is slim to none. So, feeling newly empowered with my pepper spray, I started to think of what I would do in different situations if I was ever actually approached.

Obviously, option one would be to use the pepper spray. I imagine it would go a little something like this:

Hobo Harry: Excuse me Miss, got any change?

Me: Change? (reaching into pocket) No...but I do have this! (pulls out pepper spray, points at H.H.)

Hobo Harry: What is that?!

Me: Ha Ha! It's pepper spray you transient terrorist! No change for you!

Me: (sprays directly into own face) AHH!! My eyes!!


Ok ... so that obviously did not go the way I had planned. Onto option two - self defense:


Bus-Stop Bob: (catcalls) Ooh wee - blond girl's looking fine today! I'd like a piece of that!

Me: Oh yeah? (approaching B.S.B) Ear Slap! Groin Kick! Eye Gouge!

Bus-Stop Bob: (laying on the street, crying) Why?!

Me: (standing over him, triumphant, hair blowing in the wind) Because I can...


Ok, so that scenario's actually a little dark and most likely ends up with me being arrested for assault. But come on, what female hasn't fantasized about going all Xena Warrior Princess on those ass-hats that yell at us on the street? Truthfully, I probably would never be able to pull out those moves anyway. That scenario might be a little more believable if it ended with me running away screaming - perhaps not quite as badass, but effective nonetheless.

Anyway, option three is my personal favorite because it involves a topic that I consider to be equal parts completely awesome and completely gay (so of course I love it): dance fighting. And when I say dance fighting, I don't mean actual fighting in a way that is cool and kind of dance-y, like a scene from a Bruce Lee movie or Kill Bill. I mean fighting in serious dance-off style, like a scene out of one of those awful dance-based movies - you know the ones - where there's a dance crew (or cheerleading squad, or pack of city-bred misfits), who are in danger of losing their competition (or scholarships, or street cred), but pull it out in a super climactic dance battle at the end, where they just bring it on, step it up, and serve it all over the other guys' faces? That's the kind of dance fight I'm talking about.

Anyway, if dance fighting was an acceptable form of self-defense, I imagine it might go something like this:


Stabby Stan: Hey there pretty lady, wanna see something? (pulls out switchblade)

Me: Oh, that's a nice knife you've got there. I have something to show you too... (throws down purse and coat, commences running man)

Stabby Stan: What the F*&%?

Me: (transitions into a combination of the Macarena and Electric Slide) Yeah, not so tough now, are you?! (stops dancing, breathless, pulls out jazz hands to signal S.S. that it's his turn)

Stabby Stan: (grabs purse and coat from ground and runs off)

Me: (yelling after S.S., now down the street with coat and purse in hand) Whatever! You're just mad 'cause you got served! I hope you like Starbucks Gift Cards 'cause that's all that's in there!


All right - so that didn't really end the way I wanted it to either. But come on, who doesn't love a dance fight?! Honestly, I wish that more people solved their problems with dance fights. Maybe one day I'll run for office and use dance fighting as my platform. All future conflicts would be solved by a well-planned dance off, and only the most coordinated would succeed. Which, on second thought, means that I'd probably consistently fail, unless the "white girl snap"/two-step combination becomes the next hottest dance move to sweep the nation.

So maybe I'll just stick to the pepper spray...

Until next time,
S.