Once upon a time, I was told to “get bent” by an 8 year old. While I responded with utmost frustration and an embarrassing feeling of insult, which was categorized rather accurately by my relinquishing in corporal violence, I began to wonder how much authority one such as myself is able to project without having to resign to done and tried methods.
Even though I had the gait, size and face to instill such horror in the eyes of The Damning Eighters, most of them had eventually come to the conclusion that I was a gentle giant, as I had disappeared for nearly 6 years when they were growing up, trying to earn that money-making piece of thick matted/glossed over piece of expensively printed paper tucked neatly into a fold out card bearing the name of so and so University.
The answer came as sudden as it did quietly: while I was practicing the Haka, in the mild belief that sticking out my tongue to reach the ridges of my chin and bulging out my eyes while chanting—if not shouting—the immortal words of Te Rauparaha would at least produce an inkling of fear, I was startled by a cold vice in the form of a grip of the shoulder from my cousin who, unbeknownst to me, had awoken out of deep slumber by my random act of dance.
Apparently, he had donned socks, which was able to mask the constant splurts and squeaks a foot makes when walking on neatly polished porcelain tiles.
And that was my answer.
Now, every time I’m at a family barbeque or function, I can always be seen with socks on in the house. The children who run around aimlessly now look for any inconspicuous movements in case they get a sudden cold grip on their shoulder, which often makes them jump in the air.
I am the Ninja of the family.
I am the master.
