Let me rephrase that. Under protest, I joined a kickball team.
Last "season," the husband joined a team with a bunch of people he didn't know. When it was time for the new "season," he was all, "let's get a bunch of our friends together and form a team! you'll play, right?"
Me: Um, no.
The husband: But it'll be fun!
Me: Um, no.
I'll spare you the back and forth and say that, because I am the best wife in the history of ever, I finally agreed.
And it is not going well.
Our team isn't completely hopeless. We have some guys who can kick it far and catch it. And some girls who can bunt and run really fast. If we had a team motto it'd probably be something like: Kick Some Balls, Run Around, Have Fun.
The other teams, however?
Well their motto goes something like this: WE MUST WIN AT ALL COSTS! ALL COSTS!!!
Basically, kickball is their version of the Hunger Games.
There can be only one survivor and I'll give you guys a hint: It ain't gonna be me.
It's not that I'm totally unathletic. It's just that I fold under pressure.
At our very first game, our team was up to
Clearly, my priorities were out of order.
The pitcher, who is your teammate (kickball has weird rules) rolled me the ball...
Yay me! I am awesome!!! Except...not.
I started to run and then something happened to my legs. I didn't trip. I didn't stumble. My legs just started to crumble, driving me to the ground. But at the same time they were still propelling me forward. So while I was getting lower, I was also getting faster. My body was doing everything in it's power to ensure that when I landed face-first in the dirt, I did it at bash-your-nose-into-your-brains speed.
I screamed out, "MY LEGS!" And watched myself get lower and lower while thinking, this is really happening. I'm going to flop to the ground like a rag doll thrown from a second story building and eat dirt. In front of all these people. IN FRONT OF ALL THESE PEOPLE. This is my nightmare.
Magically, like a Christmas miracle in May, I stayed upright. My legs started to function properly and I made it to first base. I was out, of course. But I didn't care. I just wanted to get the hell out of there. I ran for cover in the dugout and replayed the horror over and over in my mind.
Those of you who are glass-half-full kinda people are all, "there's no horror! you didn't embarrass yourself. everything is ok!"
And to you I say, "Shut up. Please."
I had trouble running, something most people have mastered by the age of three. I don't care how you slice it, that shit's embarrassing. Also, I'm pretty sure everyone would agree that if you fly to the ground with nothing to break your fall but your face, there's no coming back from that. You can kick a home run or catch a fly ball to end the game, but you will forever be known as the girl who ate shit trying to run.
From then on, my only concern was: Don't Embarrass Yourself.
When it was time to play defense, I was put in the outfield because of course I was.
No one was more grateful for this than I was. I spent most of my time looking for butterflies, watching birds fly overhead and praying the ball wouldn't come anywhere near me.
The husband would turn around every few minutes to check on me.
The husband: Every time I turned around you were closer to the fence.
Me: Huh. That's weird. The fence must have moved.
There was no happier person on earth than I, the moment the ump declared the game over. Until every muscle in my body began to ache and I realized that I am no longer a spring chicken but rather an old gray hag with malfunctioning legs. It is not the most uplifting revelation to come to, folks.
Our games are on Friday evenings. Every Friday I wake up and think, this is the worst day of my life. But then next Friday comes and I think, no THIS is the worst day of my life.
And sure enough, it is.