Sir Sam will try us to sword, or why I can no longer have neckbeard free time.

The Tales of Lady Saber

Here are the players in the story. Player 1. Me. Lady Saber.

Still 16 years old, a foreign exchange student, undergoing extensive culture shock therapy.

Very average fencer have been doing it for about 10 years. Player 2 and 3 are my fencing coaches.

Immigrants from Hungary, really a fantastic people, husband and wife couple.

Mr. Coach is a big guy with a thunderstorm of a voice. Mrs. Coach is petite, still yells louder

than Mr. Coach. A spooky quick and always gives one-on-one instruction with people even in group lessons.

Their minor characters, but they rock. Player 4 is Sir Sam will smooth cheeks.

How I wish it wasn't. He's a big, sweaty mouth breather that usually smells like death.

His typical attire includes grungy graphic tees sandals, cargo shorts with pockets full of old

pasta and meat sauce. Either that or he bathes in it. Not sure, but the smell is pungent.

Sam's mother, Mrs. Sam, isn't minor character but she shows up more often down the line so I'll

detail her. Curly hair, feminine build, wears mom jeans, very warm and friendly, but I guess this

is stereotypical of suburban moms. This story occurs about one week after my last encounter with Sir Sam.

To recap, last time I gave him the contact information from my fencing classes,

I might as well have given Sarah on the ring too. I want to give a bit of context first.

When I'm practicing, I make zero attempt at my appearance. Makeup of any kind will mix with

sweat and turn into acne soup on my face so I go without makeup. My hair is done up in a bun

and my chest is squished into a sports bra. Seriously guys, it's very unmalady-like.

Practice starts at 5 pm and ends at 7.30 pm. I'm there earlier to use the gym or go running

before class, usually for 45 minutes. Today I run making two circuits around the cross-country

...