I’m officially an athlete, Bitchez…er. READER! Sorry, that’s the potential athletic steroids talking.
Now, I know what you’re thinking: Did they somehow make kissing cats or eating cake an athletic event? They haven’t yet, for the record, but they should, because sometimes wrangling a cat in for smooching is quite a challenge and not for the faint of heart. Cake eating is still a stretch, I haven’t been able to put a spin on making that an athletic ability yet, despite my years of trying. Keep thinking, Me. Keep thinking.
For those of you who sort of know me, I’m sure you’re wondering what sort of athlete I’ve become. Good question, Reader. Because I’m not all showy with my athleticism, it can make one scratch head and wonder.
Fun Fact about Trixie Bang Bang: I’m a two-time golf champion, complete with first place trophies to prove it. Granted, I was on the worst golf flight, but my partner and I were officially the best of the worst. I owe some of that to my ex-husband, who had the patience of a saint at that time to spend hours with me in the backyard teaching me to swing on whiffle balls and playing on Par 3’s for a solid summer. He wasn’t all bad, is what I’m saying, except for the times he was putting his wiener in other women and talking about me and to me like I was a piece of crap that he needed to scrape off his shoe. Those parts, bad. But teaching me to golf, good, and that’s something I have with me long after the honeymoon was over. Is that how yin/yang works? It doesn’t seem quite balanced, but who am I to judge the Universe’s balance system. No one, that’s who, because the Universe will not be bossed around.
We had our first league meeting last Wednesday night, and I almost had a panic attack because when “they” – meaning all the mean people in the world – say “step out of your comfort zone!” – that’s exactly what I did when I said yes to the league. My hair curled from the sweat that was pouring from my head, and Mo and My Mister bought me copious amounts of drink to get me to settle down.
I’m a very nervous athlete, Reader. Because I think I suffer from a mild strain of PTSD when it comes to sports, harking back to my days in the school gymnasium when I was almost always the person picked last for every team sport, or maybe it was just volleyball, but it seems like almost every sport. Except for that time when the Popular Girl Mel picked me towards the beginning of Team Choosies, and I didn’t want to let her down for going out on a limb like that, so I tried so damn hard to get that ball over the net on the serve, but I don’t think I made it. Because sometimes want-to doesn’t equal victory, but damn, I tried. But even now I appreciate the faith, or pity – whatever. So take heed, Popular Athletes in School – sometimes pick the worst player first, and when they are a famous-among-dozens internet blogging sensation you may get a shout-out. You can only hope for such an honor, because first you have to know a blogger, and then second, you have to know one who just rambles off the train tracks like this.
But back to the point, which is I’m now suffering from a sports injury, Reader. From practice.
Right there. An ouchie.
And see that unpolished and ragged-edged fingernail? That’s the nail of an athlete, Reader. No fancy mood-changing nail polishes on that hand. Until tomorrow at least, because I know this will come as a surprise to you, but I’m heading to the Caribbean next week and need nice fingers to hold drinkies when I go.
By now you’re probably asking yourself what sort of league could cause such an aggressive injury, and such aggressive panic in Trixie Bang Bang. The answer, Reader, is the terrifying league of Bowling. Yes, I joined a drinking league with a bowling problem, as Mo stated.
I told them I was quite bad before joining, but it took my first night of practice to drive that point home to all of them. I had no less than four people giving me pointers on that first night, which let me tell you, just gives me even greater performance anxiety despite the good intentions. So I guzzled down several more drinks.
I think I got a strike in one of the four matches I played. And a lot lot lot of gutter balls.
My scores were something like 63-54-62-something else… A solid 60ish average. Hey, I never promised them a rose garden when they asked me to play. Merely a warm, sweaty body that will show up for 32 long ass weeks and throw that ball.
I’m a lefty bowler, which is where I’m placing the blame for my trouble with this sport in which drunk hillbillies excel. I mean, my brain is conflicted, Reader!
I write right handed.
I hold my silverware left handed.
I golf right handed.
I bowl left handed.
My brain is in all sorts of states of confusion!!
Let’s hope the alcohol straightens it out. To help it along, I’m going to practice in my long hallway, tossing balls until I have a rhythm. Not bowling balls, sheesh, of course not, but some sort of plastic ball, because as I learned from my wandering-wienered ex-husband, enough practice may one day net me a best-of-the-worst trophy.
And that day, Reader, will be the day I put an addition on Chez Bang Bang to accommodate my trophy room.
Let’s recap, Reader, because this was all over the place and I’m not sure it even connects.
1/ I am sort of an athlete, in the loosest sense of the word.
2/ I am sort of in shock that I committed to doing anything for 32 weeks in a row, much less something that causes me anxiety and drives me to drink. Well, let’s be honest, it’s not really driving me to drink as much as it’s providing me with a solid excuse to throw back Jack & Coke on a Wednesday night.
3/ I’ve got a conflicted brain which doesn’t know if it’s left or right.
4/ I can find the good in people, even those who stick their wieners where they shouldn’t.
5/ Thirty two weeks isn’t that long, is it? I’m trying to tell my left/right brain that.
6/ It takes a village to make a bowler, Reader.
7/ When all else fails, drink.