Once upon a time, the newf signed us up for water aerobics, resulting in an epic standoff from which it seemed there would be no victor. I said I would sooner busk the streets of suburbia doing the helicopter, he said I was being dramatic, I said there has not been a day on this earth that I haven’t maintained a cool and calm demeanor and how dare he insinuate otherwise in some form of relationship mutiny. Then other stuff happened but I never ended up in a pool so let’s assume I won.
Two years after this incident, I had grown, matured, relaxed, and other nicer ways of saying I stupidly let my guard down. So when our lesbians joined a recreational dodgeball league and needed at least two men on the team, I got caught up in the excitement. I thought back to how fun elementary school was, how awesome dodgeball gym days were, and how it’s one of those activities where it doesn’t matter how good you are. And then I said yes.
Now, obviously I could write a whole post on the many reasons why this was a foolish decision on my part. But let’s just assume that five years of posts on this blog have basically covered that ground in abundance and just power through…
The first of many struggles started when it came time to pull together the outfit. Which, if I may educate you all for a moment, is apparently not called an outfit when it comes to sports. So, to prove that I can belong in the world of athletics, what is and will clearly always be ‘the outfit,’ will now be referred to as ‘the uniform.’ Just know that calling it ‘the uniform’ instantly reduces my enthusiasm by thirty-five princess-points.
(And yes – I just invented a whole new scale of measurement in order to replace the homosexual whimsy that we lost in the renaming of ‘the outfit.’ Consider the playing field evened.)
For our first game night, I was told to bring a black tee and a white tee and before you get too excited, no – it wasn’t for fashionable layering purposes. Again, athletes don’t seem to appreciate the value of casual layering in their leagues which I’m afraid is going to cost them another fifteen princess-points.
(Seriously, for people who have a proven interest in competing to win, it’s like they don’t even care about earning enough to win a free My Little Pony at the end of the season.)
As it turns out, I don’t have many sport-friendly t-shirts. I know. You’re shocked. Their easy solution of just grabbing any black or white shirt out of the closet would have been much easier had they asked for vests. Or hats. I still maintain that team hats would have looked super sharp and intimidating.
Still, I managed to find a white v-neck and an old black tee with a distinct ‘leotard-esque’ quality that would just have to do even after spilling toothpaste on the shoulder, leaving a white stain that I was not entirely comfortable with. Meanwhile, the newf thought he found the perfect solution in a white and black striped, hooded tank top that was about two sizes too small.
Oh yes. We would be dodging balls. That much we knew for sure.