We were stood up: At least if they'd asked us to meet at the gym, we'd have known we weren't going to work out

Crystal City Boxing from Dokkoto Martial Arts in Bath had two sponsored fighters competing in Buffalo on Saturday. "Thanks for the sports commentary, Amy," you might be saying right now, "but what does that have to do with you...who typically considers getting up off the couch an Olympic event?" Wow. Well...for one...let's ease up on the sarcasm, shall we? After all, I have very diverse interests. And, two, I was promised dinner after the fights.

After my last, failed, MMA experience, I vowed to up my fashion game but after a thorough search failed to yield strategically-ripped-up pants or a laces-up-the-back boudoir corset, I reluctantly returned to my ill-fitting, high-waisted mom jeans and hoodie combo. With rain boots. Fortunately, the boxing crowd are more my type of people. Sweatshirts and sneakers for miles. 

This particular venue boasted ample seating with a clear view of the ring. It's really the little things. Much nicer to balance my booty rather than my body on a rickety chair. My patriotic blood pressure rose righteously when I was asked to stand for the Canadian national anthem but I was able to decompress by belting out "The Star Spangled Banner" right after. My experience with boxing is limited to my nearly one hundred viewings of "Rocky"(Thanks, Brad Mosiman)/(My heart melts every time Rocky asks Adrian, "Where's your hat?" as she fights her way to him after his grueling match.) so I was a little nervous about how I should conduct myself. My respect for the program (Not that they needed MY respect...please) rocketed when the first match featured developmental competitors. It was both inspirational and ferocious. I paid close attention to the crowd so that I could better emulate and blend in. "Hit 'em!" was a popular (albeit somewhat obvious) chant. "Put up yer mitts!" made me laugh out loud which resulted in my entire section turning to me in disgust because they thought I was laughing at the fighters. Brad took this moment to pretend NOT to know me. Embarrassed and self-conscious, I decided to shelve my newly-brainstormed bellow of "Put up yer dukes!" (in hopes of encouraging the crowd to join me in an epic Pat Benatar sing-along.).

Speaking of epic, both of our fighters won! Our scrappy elementary fighter stood calmly in her boxing shorts and tank, watching her competitor, bedecked in royal robes and a BIG personality, own the stage. until...the bell rang. Our adult fighter was a role model of resilience...his training, fitness level, and mental strategy clearly evident.

Our group made plans to meet and celebrate after the competition. Having been texted the address, Brad and I arrived first and acquired a table in the busy restaurant. As we finished our first round of drinks, we (I) began to feel anxious (hungry). Soon, my suspicions were confirmed:  We'd been ditched. "They heard I was making fun of handi-capable fighters," I told Brad sadly. "No," Brad told me, "They accidentally ended up at the same chain at a different location." Accident? Maybe. Pretty sure I've been banned from all boxing-related events.

We waved our waitress over and apologized for monopolizing a big table in her area. I ordered a second drink to drown my sorrows and selected ravioli for my meal. "What's this?" I asked my waitress when my entrée arrived soon after. "Your ravioli," she said, making a mental note to tell the bartender to water down my next drink. I stared at my plate blankly, the sauce-covered log roll measuring nearly a foot in length with cavernous openings on either side.  "But raviolis are square, self-contained pillows of stuffed pasta," I said, dumbfounded. She smiled and insisted that the term is open to interpretation. "Not according to Google," I tried to shout through Brad's hand over my mouth. 

"What's the bill say?" Brad asked  later as I sat, stunned, studying our total.  I glanced around. Last time I paid this much for a meal, I'd been stuffed (like a ravioli) in an outdoor igloo watching fireworks and enjoying six courses of impossible-to-pronounce food. Warmly thanking the waitress, Brad paid while I sulked because he'd refused to let me tell her the Google definition of ravioli. As we walked briskly, battling spitting snow and a bone-chilling wind, out to the car to prepare for the hour-long ride home, Brad began the game that we would play for the duration of the journey:  "What else we could have bought for the price of that dinner." Seven visits to McDonalds was the most painful answer. We then had fun breaking our meal down by unit price. We rounded each of Brad's rigatoni noodles to a dollar. 

Our daughters, seasoned veterans of big-city living (and prices), were disappointingly unimpressed and unsympathetic to our complaints. "First of all, Mom drank MOST of her meal," stated Sydney coldly. Savannah had the audacity to admire our friends' flair..."I've GOT to remember that tactic," she said, "What a brilliant way to utilize chain restaurants!" All I've got to say is that this friendship is off to a "Rocky" start.