Fighter

I used to be a fighter. I used to love to get into it with people about ideas - particularly politics. You know, pull out the fists, get in a little tongue lashing here and there. Other than getting into it with the love of my life every now and then about global issues like dishes, who gets to do the grocery shopping, and who is most tired, I think I have put the gloves away. Retired. The fighter has been put to bed. The question is, what does that mean? Am I now an uber whimp? Has my mind turned to mush? Am I no longer me? What happens when the fighter moves on - is my mind now destined to become a big blob of gelatanous goo? That's what happens to football players who retire (especially the ones from high school who don't ever exercise again). Something has to move in to the vast caverns where muscle once dwelt (huh? - sometimes I don't even get what I am saying). Don't get me wrong - there are still things that get me going, but I can't quite think of what they are just now. On the other hand, there are always a few people who know just how to light that spark. You know who you are. Bring it.