21 August 2010

The One with the Two Left Feet

Well, my summer break has come to an end.
It's been great. I've accomplished awesome and life-changing things such as sitting on my couch in my pajamas until 2:00 in the afternoon while downloading old Debbie Gibson (Electric Youth, baby!!) and Bangles songs.
Yesterday, I summoned enough energy to start packing to move back to the city. Although, I don't know if it's considered packing if I never really unpacked in the first place.
Yes. I was so smitten with the you're-on-vacation-so-you-can-be-a-complete-sloth concept that I didn't see the point of unloading everything just to turn around and reload it all up two weeks later. I had a nice rotation going with my Nike and Under Armour shorts and various baseball t-shirts I've collected from M's teams over the years.
Speaking of teams, we had church softball again last night. I cannot even begin to tell you how much fun it is.

And how horribly awful I am.
I don't know if you remember my confessional about how unathletic I am. For real. I couldn't hit a beach ball if it was rolled straight to me.
I was the girl who cried and screamed and begged and threatened to kill myself if my mother wouldn't let me quit softball when I was in middle school.
I wanted piano lessons. And painting class. And the freedom to read my precious Babysitters Club and Beverly Cleary and Judy Blume and Madeleine L'Engle and E.B. White books.
You could totally tell that last night.
Granted, I hit the ball each time I was up to bat. And I tried to get the first baseman to drop the ball instead of tagging me out - I guess bribes of $50 don't go as far as they used to. I did make it on base once, and due to the excellent hitting by the rest of the team I got to actually step on home plate.
However, the team has me catching. It's apparently the only spot on the field where I can do the least amount of damage, except to myself.
Yes. I fell. I wasn't even doing anything that spectacular. I was chasing a ball that someone threw in the general vicinity of home plate, and as I went to get it I tripped over my own two feet and found myself flat on my back.
The first thing that went through my mind?

I was wearing a clean white shirt, and the ground was a dirty dirt color. That means laundry.
I was so incredibly focused on the game, wasn't I? They should be proud to have me on the team.
I think I started laughing hysterically so everyone would think I did it on purpose. I delusionally like to distort reality like that sometimes.
As our team was running off the field, I heard some other people laughing and I looked over towards third base. There was someone rolling in the dirt shouting, "Who am I?? Who am I??"
It was my husband. The man who pledged his undying love and support to me in front of a church full of people 6.75 years ago.
He says he did it to get people's attention off of me because he knew I was embarrassed, but seriously.
Now we have two white shirts to wash.
Our team won both games, no thanks to me. My husband, the spider monkey, is much more suited with quick reflexes catch anything that comes his way (the man can jump straight up in the air and catch a ball a gazillion feet over his head!!!) and the power to hit balls further than the pitching mound. Me, not so much.
But it was all in the name of Jesus - aside from the two brothers that almost got in a fight and the team that argued against our one-run win.
Ahhh...church league ball. Such good, clean fellowship.

Coming soon - a secret mission that's not going to be secret because I need the accountability. My 30th birthday is coming up soon (EEKKKK!!!) and I'm on a quest. It's something that The Husband said I will not be able to accomplish, so that makes this even more of a I-have-to-do-this-for-real-and-forever-amen thing. I'm calling it 30x30, and it starts Monday. Details soon!

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