Sports Season

I’ve never been much of an athlete.  Allow me to preface that by saying, I really do like sports, I am just not a participant per se’.  I’ve tried.  What I have gained from the sports arena are some very hilarious attempts.  My theory of “ya gotta look good”, doesn’t really match up with my ability, but the outfits are cool.

Take golf for example.  Years ago when I was selling advertising, I worked with a golf pro.  He had a golf club business on the side which proved to be perfect timing for my sudden urge to play.  I got an awesome deal on some sweet clubs.  Because I really love the smell of grass and driving the carts, I wanted to tee up and try this golf thing.  Not a good idea.  I was in lessons for two years and never advanced out of the beginners’ class.  Now mind you, I am not competitive by nature, I just strive to do well.  Thank God I am ok with not.   My wonderful friend Frito is quite an athlete, ie. snow and water skier, golfer, softball, snowmobiler, you name it.  She suggests we join a league.  Righhhhhhhhht!  I mean how are we suppose to improve our game if we don’t giver ‘er all we got.  We joined.  I never improved.  But we laughed, and we looked good. 

Downhill skiing – let’s not go there.  Knee boarding and water skiing; let’s just say there is something about a woman in the water, hanging on for dear life, repeatedly trying to climb onto a kneeboard that is just not pretty. I should have known better.  My people pleasing ways pushed me into it.  I wanted my brother to be proud.  I ended up tubing.  Impressive.

My first experience with softball I was around 13.  The neighborhood kids put a game together in the field and were short a player.  In their desperate attempt to fill the vacancy, I was recruited.  This day could have been the turning point, especially from the viewpoint of the neighborhood kids who thought I couldn’t play.  I was up to bat, I swung at the ball and hit a line drive into the pitchers gut.  He puked.  Though I felt proud of not striking out, I couldn’t help but feel horrible about hurting this kid.  I never played again until my mid-thirties when I joined a local bar team in an attempt to up my ‘cool’ factor. First night of practice I was expected to catch a ball coming down towards me and I ran the other way.  Hey, it looked like it was going to hit me in the head.  Besides, I didn’t like the outfit.  That ended that. Apparently I am not very cool.

I am not sure what my parents were thinking when they bought me a bowling ball.  It was a beautiful blue ball with my name engraved.  I had the shoes, the bag – the whole kit and caboodle.  Until years later when my friend Maggie found it in the apartment dumpster announcing ‘some idiot threw their bowling ball in the dumpster’.  When I asked her to show it to me, she unzipped the bag, revealing the personalized ball and the look on her face alone was worth all the years of lugging that ball around.  Years later I joined a bowling league thinking I could meet some new friends and have some fun.  The team that got stuck with me were quite disappointed. Turns out I won most improved bowler that year.  A few years later those girls called to ask if I would join their team again, stating “we know you are a really bad bowler, but you are funny”.  Oh great, just what I need, another reason to get laughed at.  Uggh.  Well I love those gals and 25 years later we’re still friends. 

I was out with a friends recently; out to have a fun time and they suggested bowling.  My first thought was ‘this cannot be happening’.  After praying that they didn’t notice the ‘fear of looking foolish’ on my face, I said ‘well, if you are in this thing for a good laugh, ok’.  I explained how I may throw gutter balls, or slide down the alley myself, or trip.  He was fine with all that.  What could it hurt.  Who doesn’t want a good laugh, including myself.  Sometimes we need to let our guard down and just roll with it.  So we did.  Turns out I am not such a bad bowler after all.   Maybe they just faked losing, allowing me to look good. 

I am thinking about taking a swing at tennis next.  I love the outfits.

Not Fit for Public

Thinking back, I have always been especially fond of ‘pajama day’.  I mean really, who doesn’t like pajama day.  I used to think it was just a polish thing that ran in my family.  Though I need to preface that by saying my Grandma wore a house dress, which is now referred to as a muumuu by my Mom.  As much as I love my pajamas, I pray I never leave home in a muumuu, or wear one for that matter.

There is no doubt in my mind I horrified my daughter in her younger years when I would just ‘run off to the store’ in my bunny slippers.  I still have those slippers.  Now frail and thread bear, I only wear them on very special occasions.  I am saving them to wear on my trip into heaven. 

Sometime around 15 years ago, when I was married, one of the neighbors called around 8 pm.  It was wintertime and dark outside.  She asked if we wanted to go out for pie and coffee at the downtown eatery.  We announced that we were in our pj’s, could we have a raincheck.  Well, she said, “oh no, we’ll change into our pajamas too and meet you in the driveway, let’s go”.  And off we went.  That may have been the best pie and coffee I ever had.  I bet that waitress still talks about us goofballs.

What happens when going public in our pajamas, we get a little braver each time, to the point of flat out indecency. It’s one thing to hang out in our pajamas all day doing chores, or lounging on the couch over a bag of popcorn.  It goes to a whole new level outside the confines of your home.

I live in an apartment building.  There are three buildings all together, one of which looks like one long building but it is actually considered two.  I clean these buildings for the owner as part of my rental agreement.  The last time I cleaned was the icing on the cake.  A potential show stopper if the police happen to drive by.

Back a few months ago my friend Frito gave me some completely amazing pajamas.  She had worn them before, but they were a little big so I am now the proud owner of these pajamas, which turn out to be my ‘outfit pajamas’. They really do look like an outfit.  The not so good part about that is how I just wear them way too often.  I developed a comfort zone with these pajamas.  Not only are they fattening when worn too often, but expensive.  I have to wash them every other day to the tune of a buck fifty per wash. They wash up beautifully by the way.

One morning, just recently, I decide to do a gung ho cleaning of the homestead.  Why bother getting dressed, all sweaty, and then take a shower, and get dressed again.  I will clean, get all icky in my pajamas, then shower and get dressed. I waited until most everyone had left for work and began my cleaning, darting in and out of each building with one supply, then the next, then the vacuum.  On and on I went, working away the hours.  I decide to do some outside work as well. I planned to wash the sign and the entrance doors, do some sweeping, etc. 

I learned a big lesson that day.  I cannot break routine.  I am a routine gal.  I went back to my apartment, switching gears to do the outside work; I grabbed my branch trimmers, corn broom, rags, bucket of soapy water, and headed outside to polish the place up.  Ooops, where are my keys?  They are in my apartment!  I was living in the moment of one of my biggest fears. I was locked outside of my apartment. In my outfit pajamas. Holding a corn broom and a branch trimmer.  A bucket of soapy water at my feet.  And to make matters worse no one was home at the apartments to call the owner to let me in.

If you think this is funny, I haven’t even mentioned my hair.  I never met a single person that has morning hair like mine.  This is not a pretty picture folks.  It was really bad when I woke up, so I tried dolling it up with a barrette – tugging and pulling it back.  Due to my lack of vanity, I just went with it.  Who cares right.  I suddenly cared, big time.  All I could picture in my mind was the Publishers Clearinghouse team showing up with my big winnings and here I stand in my pajamas, flipflops and completely insane hair, holding a broom.  Not a pretty photograph to publish in a magazine, ‘the woman from Fenton who won the big sweepstakes’. A pitiful sight to behold.

I sat in a lawn chair belonging to one of my neighbors in awe of my predicament. One and a half hours later someone from my building came home.  I was in like Flynn. 

It's Just Madness.

I cracked up laughing today as I played over in my mind a class I took earlier this year.  I was laughing so hard – it’s a good thing I was in the privacy of my apartment, in public I may have been considered ‘crazy’ or something. 

I am all about personal development and spend a great deal of time in this area, especially after quitting smoking four plus years ago.  This past spring I learned of an anger resolution class starting in my community, so I jumped on board. I was getting excited to think about the new things I was going to learn.  I didn’t necessarily think I had a problem with anger but always interested in what drives human emotion.

Day one of class was enlightening.  I was going to like this class.  Well maybe.  Mandatory hugs were announced at the end of the class, “don’t leave until you give someone a hug!” I am a hugger from way back, ask anyone who knows me.  Now I think twice before hugging.  We do not want to hug the wrong person or be inappropriate with too much hugging for pete sake. My hugging radar was ignited and I instantly became uncomfortable.  What the heck is this feeling all about? I couldn’t help wonder why I was suddenly uneasy in a situation that only a year ago I would have initiated hugging each and every person in the room and probably asked for phone numbers while I was at it.

Then it hit me, I had also taken a personal boundary class.  Talk about ah ha moments. Then I really laughed.  I didn’t want to hug one single person in that room, and felt bullied into it.  I was getting ticked off.  I mean who has a right to tell me who to hug and when? Seriously.   I snuck out as my classmates were embracing each other and I simmered in my juices all the way home. 

Within a short period of time I put logic to my thoughts and decided to just get over it. Put on my big girl panties and get my rear end back in that class next week.  So I did.  Not a good week.  I must have been on edge because something was said that got my blood boiling.  Now mind you, nothing said was directed at me, I just speculated. I am very good at speculating.  I had the speaker hog tied and crucified before hugs were ordered and I stomped off.  That was that with the anger resolution class.  By golly.

As I sat at my sewing machine this afternoon going 100 mph, thinking back on this class, it hit me right in the gut.  I bet I have an anger problem. Nah, I am just yelling it like it is – that’s what Maxine does.  I better give this some thought.

Don’t have time to think about it now, I’ll put it on the list of things to do and head out the door for my controlling emotions class.