Fencing is an elegant, ancient sport. Precision. Discipline. Footwork.
Jo read exactly none of that — and showed up in high heels and a dream.
Wearing a sleek leather (was it regulation? no), high heels, and a fencing mask decorated with rhinestones, Jo entered the salle like a warrior-princess who took a wrong turn on the way to a cocktail party.
Her opponent wore standard white gear and a look of mild concern. Jo, meanwhile, clicked across the floor like a sword-wielding catwalk model, heels echoing like a countdown to fashion mayhem.
The match began. Jo raised her foil (somewhat upside down), and lunged with all the grace of someone fencing underwater in platform pumps. Her opponent sidestepped. Jo kept going — possibly forever.
Each movement was a chaotic blend of attack and accessory adjustment. At one point, her heel got stuck in the mat. At another, she performed what experts are now calling “the pirouette parry,” though it may have just been her trying not to fall.
She was hit. Twice. Then a third time. But instead of retreating, she struck a pose, blade pointed skyward, yelling, Touché to this outfit!”
The referee was speechless. Her opponent gave up. The scoreboard short-circuited (possibly from Jo’s sheer force of energy).
Was any of this technically fencing? No. Did Jo win? Also no.
But did she leave the piste with dignity, drama, and only one slightly bent heel?
Absolutely.
Jo may not have mastered the sport, but she definitely stabbed boredom through the heart!
