Muggers, drunk street harassers, and violent sociopaths of all stripes are applauding the new trend of women being taught "fun" self-defense classes, rather than those downer "how to potentially save yourself from a life-threatening attack" self-defense classes that women used to take. "I firmly believe that women's self-defense classes should always be taught in a 'fun' lighthearted manner that emphasizes fellowship and hilarity over adrenaline and the ability to temporarily ignore pain," said John, a rapist. "When it comes to self-defense, why be so serious?" argued Adrian, a subway groper. "Smile, ladies—this is a party!" agreed Max, a purse snatcher.
Then she heard about Girls' Fight Night Out, a monthly fund-raiser in Seattle that features food, cocktails, shopping, raffles - and an hourlong self-defense class that mixes some martial arts with simple street-fighting techniques. With her 70-year-old mother, Joyce Koeppen, in tow, Ms. Ryan went, joining more than 50 women who paid $30 each to spend an evening buying accessories, chitchatting and learning basic techniques to fend off an attacker. "This was about fun and self-defense, which is why I chose to go," she said.
Ms. Ryan is hardly alone. Many women are turning to self-defense events and classes that emphasize fewer scary scenarios and grim statistics about violence against women and more fitness, friendship or just plain fun.
Fun and self-defense are mutually exclusive. Here's a "just plain fun" "basic technique to fend off an attacker" that really works: You're walking down a dark street late at night, alone. Suddenly, a man grabs you from behind. His hand is over your mouth so you can't scream. You try break free of his hold like they taught you in the Fun Self Defense class, but he easily overpowers you. You can feel his hot, evil breath on the back of your neck. You begin to panic. As adrenaline surges through your veins, you think of your children. Will you ever see them again? It's doubtful. So you sink your teeth into the webbing between your attacker's thumb and forefinger, tasting his salty blood in your throat. He screams, enraged. Choking back your own vomit, you whirl and leap at his throat, biting first its side, and then, as he yelps, biting deeper into his Adam's Apple as he falls. He claws desperately at your hair, but you feel your molars digging through his neck's soft flesh, further crushing his windpipe. His streaming hot blood bathes you, baptizing you in the seeping essence of his life. He beats at the side of your head with his fist. You raise your hands up to his face, feeling for the soft eye socket, and when you reach it, you sink your thumb knuckle-deep into his eyeball, blinding him. His animalistic screams of pain slowly die out, subsiding into a mere gurgle as blood pools around the remains of his ruined throat. You raise your bloodied body from his and howl at the moon. You are woman. You are safe.
That will be $30.