Fist-to-Face-itis

"I'd rather take the punch
Than not give you a shot
I'd rather find out who you are
Than who you're not"

-Ben Harper and the Innocent Criminals, "Fight Outta You"

Nothing puts life in perspective like getting punched in the face.

It was a Sexy Saturday night when I decided to partake in some good old fashion, freedom-loving, wholesome(-ish) streaking. At least thirty people ran a naked or half-naked mile down the main street in the St. Collegeberg party scene. I was wearing shoes, and for some reason, gloves, I think my logic being that if I was going to be losing body heat through my junk, I might as well conserve some by covering up my hands.

We assembled in a driveway and removed most of our clothing, except for underwear. We ran a few blocks, and then as we turned a corner, it all came off. I was holding my boxers in my hand, so I could have theoretically upgraded (or downgraded, depending on how you see it) to being only half-naked.

As we ran, I became more and more comfortable, and eventually I started weaving through groups of people, whipping people with my boxers, etc. When we got to the end of the street, some of us decided to run back, still naked, and I of course decided to come along, as I was beginning to realize that nakedness equals happiness.

On the way back, I became even more brazen, charging at groups of people and having them disperse before me. But then one guy didn't get out of my way, so I decided to move him manually. Bad idea.

He goes down and actually skids on the pavement. A few seconds later I see him in my peripheral vision, and he is running. In retrospect, it probably would have been a better idea to outrun him, because I know that I could have easily done it. But at the time, I felt safety in the group, and if I were to get in a fight with this guy, I wanted to have my friends around me. So I turned around and tried to juke him. The instant I turned around, I saw a fist, then a lot of stars, and then pavement.

I broke my fall with my arm and was up as quickly as possible. The last thing I wanted was to be lying naked in the gutter with a guy kicking the shit out of me. Before I'm even up, one of my fellow streakers throws my assailant against a car, gets a few hits on him, and he goes down. We kept running, we kept singing, I didn't really even feel a thing. (I would later learn that this was because my Infraorbital nerve had been rendered temporarily inactive from the blow.) We ran back to the house where our clothes were. A few blocks away, I turned to the guy next to me and said "you know, I think this is kind of what the first Olympics was like, back in the day, what with them competing naked and all."

I had a bloody nose that lasted fourteen hours. I had one hell of a shiner. I have a good story to tell. It was all worth it.