I hope you’ll indulge me a little. I’m new to the Chicks, and it’s been twenty years.
When I first saw HIM, he was doing that macho pose–legs spread shoulder width apart, arms crossed his broad chest and a serious “Don’t ‘F’ with me” expression on his face. His chest snagged my attention–I’d always been a sucker for muscular pecs. But the expression on his face was all the warning I needed. I kept my eyes to myself.
The second time I saw HIM, his biceps bulged from the edge of a police uniform shirt, and I couldn’t help but stare as HE walked across a stage in front of me. I never dreamed I’d get to touch those sculpted arms. Well, okay maybe there was a little fantasizing going on but HE was my instructor at the police academy, so the only contact between us, was him kicking my unskilled a** on the mat. Trust me, there is nothing sexy about stinky old workout rooms, sweaty mats, and ending up sprawled out on your back in front of a bunch of guys. It didn’t help matters that I weighed 95 pounds soaking wet.
Sidenote: I kinda cheated to get in the academy, duct tape and rolls of pennies lined around my waist and ankles tipped the weight scales over the required 110 pounds. It cost me the skin around my waist, but hey, I wasn’t complaining. It bought my ticket to butt-kicking 101 by the cop with the seriously wonderful bod–what’s not to love about that?
It turned out, there was a lot to hate. The butt kicking and verbal abuse was constant, but it wasn’t from HIM. It was from his boss, a man openly opposed to women in uniform. Besides being the smallest person, I had the misfortune of having the handicap of being left-handed. No kidding, a skinny left-handed female. The horrors–run for your lives!
There were only four women in my class of almost 50 recruits, and only one female instructor who left the academy for promotion a couple months into our six months of training. I’d always been comfortable around men, I played sports, hung around frat guys in college, and worked security for years. So yeah, I’d been involved in fights, exposed to weapons and experienced injuries. But my style of fighting, was street brawling, nothing more.
This was different. Every hour of every day the women had to prove that we belonged there, and despite the fact that I’d been involved in countless physical confrontations from chasing down shoplifters, boosters, and perverts at the mall, ( no Paul Blart jokes, please) I was at the top of that questionable list. Remember–small left-handed little girl?
But not HIS list. The biggest, baddest, most macho cop there…was the one guy who believed in my ability. HE was the one to help me learn the tactics ‘left-handed’ when his boss told everyone I was too stupid to learn it. (The insults were shared equally throughout the class, but the truth lay closer to home–despite the fact that he developed the tactics, his boss didn’t know how to teach the complicated moves left handed. They were designed for the perfect right-handed male.)
HE did. HE also helped me find out which defensive tactics worked best for me. Because not all moves work for all people–HE told me to forget what I saw in the movies, if I punched a three hundred pound guy, I’d break my hand, not the guy’s jaw. I grew to respect the man who didn’t judge my ability because of my sex, size, or left-handed handicap. HIS opinion meant a lot to me–professionally. Yes, the fantasies became more frequent, but HE had become so much more to me. Almost god-like. (picture the glowing radiance of Zeus)
Right before graduation, we had what we called ‘Situationals.’ They’re mock calls with cops as actors, instructors grading the recruit’s performance and scenarios designed for failure. Pass them and you graduate, fail and you’re out. No pressure, right?
On HIS call, it turned into a fight call with me fighting to retain my gun. My partner stood and watched, my gun discharged(a blank) in my holster. The call was stopped and HE proceeded to chew our butts out more than I had ever seen him do before–furious, yelling with a little spit escaping while HE dressed us down. I’d made a huge mistake, luckily my tactics had helped me retain my weapon–except in real life I would have shot in the thigh, my foot if I was lucky. My partner on the other hand, failed to join in during a mock ‘life and death’ situation. He allowed me to get seriously injured and didn’t lift a finger.
I was furious. Mad at myself, and mad at HIM for yelling at me. Not mad at my partner, he was wearing the same shoes I had on, but I literally hated the MAN. After that, I kicked some serious butt throughout our testing days–I had some ground to make-up with fights, shoot outs, foot chases, and even the boring routine calls where I thought something was going to happen–but it didn’t. I finished fourth over-all in my class.
But my hero-worship was gone. The Street Narcotics Tac guy who’d spent countless hours helping me, fell from his pedestal–flat on his face. He was, after all, just another macho guy who yelled at me. (Yeah, my damaged pride played a huge part in that fall.)
On the day of graduation, he addressed the whole class. He told the guys they’d have to prove themselves out there–that their fellow cops would question their ability to perform until they had a fight under their belt. It wasn’t a conscious act of acceptance, it just happened because the officer’s survival depended on it. (Remember no help while fighting for my gun? In real life if my partner didn’t help, we’d both be dead.)
Two weeks after graduation, I ran into HIM at the gym and we went out for a healthy lunch– Burger King. ;). That was my choice, not his cause I knew he’d pick tofu or grass or something equally disgusting to eat. Over the next few years I learned a lot about his softer side–he wrote poetry (ssshhhh-it’s a secret and he’ll probably kill me for divulging it), he loved Jazz music, and he would help ANYONE who needed a helping hand–every weekend filled with volunteering. His hard exterior, had a very mushy center.
A few years later we were married.
And twenty years later this week, he still has my back. His broad chest and wonderful arms are still there and I absolutely love when he wraps them around me with encouragement–just not on a stinky, sweaty mat. Okay, maybe sometimes we still engage in wrestling matches and I actually do win every now and then, but I have to remind him it’s his fault when he loses because he taught me to fight dirty. ;) His heart, strength and courage are still a force to be reckoned with.
He’s also the biggest pain in my a** to ever walk this earth. Alpha men get injured-ALOT. They push physical boundaries, take on tasks they shouldn’t, give instructions non-stop, pump iron constantly, and don’t believe in stopping. Ever.
Push. Take. Give. Pump. Don’t stop…Wait…I LOVE that;)
So when you meet an alpha male, kick him off his pedestal and look for his softer side. Because that’s what makes him desirable, and worth keeping around for the long haul. Happy Anniversary Chuckles.
Where did you meet the man that stole your heart? And what special plans do you have for him on Valentine’s Day?