When Do We Get To The Last Straw?

It was when I was a kid in junior high that I came to the end of my patience with bullies. At thirteen, I was an easy-going young man closing in on 6 1/2 feet tall. On the way there, a lot of my smaller (most all of them were) peers discovered that I would take a lot of ribbing and silently absorb it or laugh it off. One particular morning, however, I was on my way to give a special girl a satin heart full of chocolates, and the candy was balanced precariously on the bundle of schoolbooks I had under my arm. As I was walking down the hall toward her classroom, one of my regular irritations - a normal-sized classmate of mine - attempted to entertain some friends by running up and pushing me from behind. My books and the chocolate box went flying to the floor.  The heart-shaped box sprang open, and the chocolates rolled in all directions. A fight ensued. The perp went home with two black eyes and a bloody nose. All who witnessed my last straw testified in my favor. Our principal completely exonerated me. And no one ever messed with me again. When I got into college, I was 6'10" tall. That tussle in junior high was the very last time I had to use my fists to communicate with anyone. No brag. Just fact. Enough was enough.

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