Humiliation For Beginners

Goaded by a "friend" and tricked by another, I went to play volleyball on Monday. I am only writing about this now because until this morning I had no sensation in my arms, apart from searing agony.

"Go play with the ladies team on Base," I was told.  "It's just a fun league," I was promised. "They're all beginners," I was lied to.


It is really very sweet and quite lovely to think of the ladies on the Base Volleyball League as beginners. Lanky and tanned, to a woman, they each of them arrived with knee pads and ponytails and far more muscle tone than I. I arrived with a water bottle and an adorable sense of naivete, both of which were gone before the end of the 30 minute warm up routine involving squats and burpees done continuously and at speed for 20 second intervals.

A brief side bar on the burpee. Invented in the 1930's by Royal H. Burpee, a physiologist and complete dick, it is only slightly different from the Flub Gub Tuck (FGT) exercise, in that the FGT finishes in the fetal position and "focuses on the tensing of one's buttocks."(Wikipedia, 10-10-13). I mostly just stayed in the fetal position, sobbing quietly.

I didn't intend for what happen next to happen to me, ever, at any time, in my life. It was horrifying, bizarre and awkward for everyone involved.  What happened next was... team sports.

Honestly, I just showed up for a little indoor v-ball and some laughs. I thought there might be funny team names and we would all plan to get together and tie-dye t-shirts and do Jello-shots or something.  Instead I was doing drills. With athletes. For an hour. 

Pictured here: I have no idea. The map to Narnia?

The coach took pity on me and made certain no one hurt me, nor did she place me in a position where I might hurt others, although so help me I tried.  I did not successfully send the ball in the proper direction even once that night. However, I was given the rather unique opportunity to experience life as one of my students might. For, despite my utter lack of skill, each attempt I made was greeted, much to my shame, with a chorus of "good for you" and "good try"! Sincerity is all about tone. I've since been practicing mine in the mirror.

I left just before the skills game began and slightly after the earth threatened to open up and swallow me whole. I have since, and with growing alarm, watched as great dark bruises bloomed on my arms, knees, shins and (yes) chin. Watched, that is, but failed to react as, thanks to Professor Burpee, I haven't been able to move more than my eyebrows for three days.  

Is This The Real Life?

There is nothing more satisfying, more delicious to the soul in all the Universe, than waking up on a Saturday morning just for the sheer pleasure of going back to sleep. 

This is never more true than on rainy Saturdays, when you crack an eye to peek at the dawn, see nothing but drizzle, scootch closer to the cat, squirm a bit and drift back into dreams of Jason Statham holding fluffy bunnies. 

Close enough.

All of that is true but what is more true is this: waking up for a second time to the sudden recollection of the night previous, which was bizarre bordering on surreal and is now a jumbled blur of police interrogation rooms, disastrously mixed up sushi orders, the physics behind the failure of aluminium to bounce adequately for a decent game of Beer Pong, Fresca, a deadly game of Spoons with Newfies and Swedes and, probably too late, Benedryl. 

All of which results in the realization of the final truth. That bed surely, truly, is the best place to wait out the day and perhaps the rest of this posting.