The new generation has officially never heard of *NSYNC or the Backstreet Boys. Last week I officially became the lame-o who laughs awkwardly and says “I feel so old…” to someone who doesn’t know what the hell I’m talking about. Kill me.

I finished my final training course for my job, a whopping two-part finale, ten hours total, of how to defend myself in case of an attack. Not so relevant for me as a child therapist, as I think I could take on an elementary-aged kid in most duels (not to show off or anything), but eveyone else there who works with the adult, mentally disabled population had many stories to share of being attacked, including one guy who had his thumb broken between our first training and our second one and came back in a cast.

Among other things, I now know how to defend myself if you were to pull my hair (duck down to weaken your grip), grab my arm (use an element of surprise), or bite me (“Feed the bite”).

“Feed the bite” is my new favorite term ever. What it means is that if someone were to bite your arm, for example, you should push your arm even more into their mouth. They will be forced to open their jaw to readjust, giving you the opportunity to pull out and flee.

“Once we had a client clomp down on a staff member’s breast,” our instructor shared. “How do you think you would feed that bite?” Let it be known that I am the only one who laughed out loud at this. And, if you’re wondering, the answer is to hug your attacker against your chest. Sounds kind of sweet and motherly to me.

I told Doug about “feed the bite,” and he used it the next time Ketos bit him and it worked. So there you go. Finally a strategy to protect ourselves from our kitten. I guess I gained something useful from these trainings afterall.