Okay, time to lighten things up a bit. (I apologize for being such a Debbie Downer during my last two posts.)
I am not athletic.
My brothers both ran track in high school, and Slim is still quite the runner. I only run if there’s cake in front of me or a big dog behind me. I tried to get into it when we were in Manhattan, but I just don’t love it. My dad ran track and played football in high school, and my mom played field hockey and softball. The gene skipped me. In fact, the athletic gene saw me and made a bee line in the other direction.
My lack of athletic prowess did not stop me from trying out for various teams in middle and high school. You know the old saying “if at first you don’t succeed, try, try again”? For me, the rest of that phrase is “and continue to not succeed, because you suck.”
- Softball: apparently the coach wants you to catch the ball when thrown
atto you, run to first base if you actually hit the ball, and pay attention when you’re in the outfield. Guess what? Didn’t make the team.
- Volleyball: OVER the net. Oh.
- Cheerleading: tryouts for cheerleading were an epic showcase of awkwardness and lack of coordination. I had team spirit, yes I did, but apparently one needs rhythm as well. I wanted so badly to have my own pom pons and I could totally rock a ribboned, spirally-curled pony tail, but alas, I did not make the cut either time I tried out. That’s right, the selection committee got an encore presentation as I tried out twice. You’re welcome.
- Finally I settled on band . . . because you didn’t have to try out for that. I brought sexy back to the high-waisted, suspendered, marching band uniform, complete with feather plume and a sassy chin strap reminiscent of old-skool orthodontia. Again, you’re welcome.
|One of these things is not like the others . . .|
Recently, I’ve decided that I want to learn how to play golf. Mostly because I digs the preppy little outfits and what’s not to love about a sport that has cute shoes and post-game drinking?
A few months ago I sent out a distress call to ALL the other mommies in my golf-community neighborhood. Some of these women have more money than they know what to do with and pedigrees to match. (A few also have what is known in our ‘hood as too much friggin’ time on their hands, and they complain about such socially responsible topics as lawn care personnel, front gate security, and where to get one’s BMW serviced.) Naturally I sent the following email:
So I have a tacky question to ask. . . . I'm making an effort to learn how to golf, and I want to look just as cute as everyone else while doing it. I'm a bit on the "fluffy" side, so I want to know where other "fluffy" girls get cute golf skorts. Dicks has limited selection and I have googled plus sized golf skorts, but again, there's a limited selection. I appreciate any suggestions, and I'll be sitting here making bad food choices while I await replies. ;)
I got several helpful responses, but to some women, mostly of the plastic/botoxed variety, “Plus size” is anything over a 10. My idea of “fluffy” is XL and above. Fat girls wanna golf too. I finally found a skort online and was excited when it finally arrived in the mail. I had ordered an 18. (That’s right, I said it!) I put it on to go golf with hubby one evening; it fit, but it was a little snug, which sent me into my dark place in which I think hateful thoughts about myself. I try to wear clothes that fit and I seldom worry about what number is on the tag; I am what I am, and I just need to own it. BUT I also have a theory: just because it zips doesn’t mean it should. After yet another round of golf which could really only be described as "tragic," I undressed, only to discover that my skort had been mislabeled. The outside tag said 18, but the inside tag said 14. No wonder I couldn’t breathe.
Hubby, ever supportive, only fussed at me a few times while we were out on the course. He was frustrated that it took me 27 shots to get to the green, which I think was a slight exaggeration. I have a stroke counter, but it only goes up to 10. Ten beads often does not suffice. I’d be better off with a rosary – then I could tick off a bead every time I took a stroke AND maybe get a little help from the Big Guy. The fact that I’m not Catholic is irrelevant. Hubby made me skip a few holes altogether, and he reminded me how much golf balls cost when I sent three in a row straight into the water. At least I’m consistent.
A few weeks later, after finally receiving the properly-sized fluffy golf skort, I went to play with some girlfriends. It was difficult to maintain a sense of decorum when what I really wanted to do was go all Happy Gilmore on the course. At one point I told my friend Laura that my handicap was so high, I really need my own placard and a special parking space for the golf cart.
Perhaps some new fluffy golf clothes would improve my game.
Click on the ads, folks. Mama needs some fluffy golf clothes.