Now, when I was in treatment stint number 2…no, wait. I mean this with all honesty, I for reals can’t remember if it was number 2 or 3, but I’m thinking it’s probably 3, so we’ll go with that. Ahem. So while I was incarcerated, hus to the band naturally found himself lonely and out of sorts and going crazy with love and worry and pinage awaying for me. They say absence makes the heart grow fonder, but in his case, MY absence made his heart grow fond of, well, bowling. I know. Lame, right?
But his dad outfitted him with his own special ball complete with custom made finger holes (that’s what she said) and got him some of his own bowling shoes and a bag to store it all in. And while I was gone, he went all the time with his dad and brothers. And I guess he got kinda good. His score went from, you know, like 100ish to 120ish…? No, kidding. He can now score at least into the upper 150’s. So when I finally was released from the place for hope and healing, I initially rebuffed his offers for me to bowl with them.
But then I started to get jealous because he was going, like, all the time. Seriously. So I took him up for his offer and I started to go with him. And I sucked. Bowing isn’t easy, I swear. If before you had a pre-conceived notion of bowlers, that they sucked at “real” sports that required real skills, like catching and throwing a ball, or maybe they were real mama’s boys and couldn’t deal with contact sports, so they settled with bowling, and it came along with cheap letterman style jackets and a cigar smoking habit to make up for any and all skills they might otherwise have in life…
But that could just be me thinking that. I mean, it probably is, right?
Trust me. I learned the humiliating way. Bowling isn’t for pussies. It’s haaaaaard.
And if you know me, you know that I’m pretty darn awesome at sports. I was, like THE ATHELETE OF THE YEAR in 9th grade. They interviewed me for the paper.
Er, never mind it was the school paper, and not like the city-wide read paper. Who cares? I had skills. And hand-eye coordination. I had bruises I was so proud of from throwing myself melodramatically all over the volleyball court. I was the stuff legends are made of. And I thought it was time to start makin’ me some legends in bowling. So I talked myself up BIG. BIIIIIIGGG. I made Husband think I was practically pro at bowling. And then, I think, like, my first score was probably 60. If I’m lucky. And I might be lying a little. It was probably closer to 30. Ahem.
But then Bran had the notion that if he just got me my own ball with my own special form fitting finger-holes, and if I got my own shoes, and my own cute pink bag to cart it all around in, then maybe, just maybe, I could be good like him and all the Joe’s wearing trucker ball caps we knew at the alley we went to.
So we bought me a reaallllly supersuperadorablycute ball which we had inscribed Cade’s Mama on. I had wanted to inscribe I’m Boobalicious, but Brandon gave me a big N to the O on that one. He’s such a stifling husband. My creativity cannot bloom in this environment. But that’s entirely another post for another day. He’s sitting next to me doing homework, and I can feel his resentful vibes coming my way. He knows when I’m writing about him, I swear.
So back to the ball: I got one. And a really fashionable pair of pink and black bowling shoes – well, at least as “fashionable” as frickin’ bowling shoes can be.
Cade’s Mama was a 10 pounder, and she was a real beaut. And I started going with them all the time. It was an ideal sport for an underweight anorexic, because it was like I was playing a “sport” without burning too many calories, which, by the way, I was not allowed to do. And I got kinda good. Pretty soon (as in several months) I got to a point where I rarely had a game lower than 100. I never really got higher than 110, but hey. It’s better than 30.
But then, I really learned how bowling is different from other sports: (aside from the fact that only truckers exceed at bowling) with real sports, with enough practice, you get better. But not in bowling. The more you bowl, the more you suck. Seriously. It’s quite a heart-breaking phenomenon. So then I started to feel bad for myself and resent that my previous 100 score games were now dropping to 80’s and 70’s. So I decided I was going to be a quitter. A giant quitter. But I didn’t care! My frail self-esteem does not at the present time need me sucking at ONE MORE THING, geez. Lay off me, okay?
But yesterday. Ah, yesterday. Husband wanted us to go bowling with the boys. And, I don’t know what was wrong with me, but I totally acquiesced, without even a fight. I actually thought it might be fun. So we left to meet them at the alley, and we stopped at the 7 Eleven that was next door so that I could get dinner. I grabbed a Lunchable because who wants to eat a gas station hot dog? EEEwwwy!
Now, my friendly readers, take warning, and please, PLEASE learn from my mistakes: do not, DO NOT get your own bowling gear. Do not purchase a special ball, or shoes. You may only do so if someone has a gun to your head and says they’ll shoot you if you don’t do so. Then you can. But you might regret it. Why, you ask? Why all this drama? BECAUSE WHEN PEOPLE SEE YOU WALK INTO AN ALLEY WITH YOUR OWN GEAR, THEY ACTUALLY THINK YOU’RE REALLY GOOD!! I mean, aside from the fact I’m a female, which in and of itself is weird, because most of the hardcore trucker wrinkly faces have never had one, and certainly rarely had relations with them, they’ll stare. But when you walk in with your own hard-core gear, you are in. for. it.
Because they’ll all crowd around and watch you bowl. Watch the GIRL bowl. I’m supposed to be good, aight? But I’m not. I’ve actually gotten worse. So yesterday just as I was getting up to go, I looked behind me, and there, leering with the few teeth he had left was, like, a bowling groupie. He had my soda, and he looked so happy to be looking at me, watching the chick pro. I think that first turn I knocked down, like, 3.
But that’s all aside from the point! Back to my Lunchable:
I had my first with the cracker and cheese and turkey, right? Only, the turkey was sorely lacking in sodium, and it was strangely slippery-like. I gave the turkey the benefit of the doubt, had another one, and was not impressed. It looked and tasted like pink scotch tape. So I decided to just skip the poorly processed meat and stick with the cheese and crackers. About halfway through the game husband was bugged with me, I think. He said my head wasn’t in the game because I was texting with Racher, but we were planning an intervention, and that was much more important that focusing on Leering Trucker behind me and getting a high score. But if Bran wasn’t bugged with me before, he certainly was when he saw that I hadn’t partaken of all of my so-called meat. I shrugged and gave him my pink scotch tape reasoning, and he said that meat can’t taste like scotch tape, but I quickly assured him that it could, oh – it could. But then, to test the theory out (and, I think, to gross me out) he picked up the entire tower of it – about 3 inches high, and stuffed it in his mouth. I mean, it barely fit, people. And once he saw my horrified glance, he started laughing, and as he opened his mouth, I saw all that pink goo everywhere, and my cheese and crackers started knocking around down there, asking if they could come back up, so I put my head in between my legs and told them no and prayed that what I had just seen was a nightmare.
But, Bran did go to the garbage and spit it all out, and I told him it was a damn good thing he did, otherwise he’d be talking to my attorney who would be asking him to sign divorce papers right about now.
So, a few lessons I have learned throughout this whole “bowing phase” in my life.
1. Purchasing a supercute pink ball and shoes doesn’t automatically make you good. It just makes you look hot while you suck.
2. Having an old wrinkly guy with a beard as long as Moses and a chain-smoking habit leer at you is better than having no guy look at you at all. You take your flattery where you can get it, even at the risk of having your clothing taken off with someone else’s eyes.
3. Stick with things you can get better at, not get worse at. My high score yesterday was a 61.
4. Contemplate vegetarianism seriously.
5. Realize that your husband is no different than the sketchy men he frequents the same alley with. Realize he probably learned this meat-stuffing technique from another trucker.
6. Never trust the Lunchable product again.
7. Quit bowling.
Hey, does anyone wanna buy some bowling gear?