Last week at Taekwon-do (you know, I'm still not sure how many words that is), I'd tested for my yellow stripe -- the cutest little belt of them all, the first baby step on the long journey to being a non-beginner. Once you've gotten the instructor's approval to test for it, you essentially have to disgrace the entire school -- and then laugh about it -- in order to fail the test.
So, it wasn't to any great surprise that all three novices who tested that week were awarded their yellow stripes this week.
"Mr. Edwards, please step forward."
There was a bow, a handshake, a certificate, a photograph, some polite applause, and another bow. Voilà -- a yellow stripe.
"Ms. Miller, please step forward."
The same thing again. The instructor still had one more certificate in his hand, but this time, he paused for a second before speaking.
"...Denton, please step forward."
It's an interesting aspect of my last name: It looks simple enough that people don't initially worry about mispronouncing it, but once they take a careful look, they realise they have no idea what that vowel dipthong is supposed to be.
Obviously, I was delighted by that turn of events. I know there are better names in this world (see: Colleen Clinkenbeard), but "Mr. Denton" ranks high enough on that list for me.
I think I'll wear my "Mr. Denton" hat tomorrow, to celebrate.