Monday, October 24, 2011

I'm sorry, but you're just not the "dodgeball" type. Maybe you should get a doll?


For some reason I can't explain, I have never been able to play any sport that involves a fast-moving ball.

Balls (you know, the sporty game kind) have always had this strange magnetism to my skull. No matter the game or venue, the ball will find it's sneaky little way to my head. In other words, I always get hit with the ball. Always. Hard.

I think it all started in elementary school when I first came to my sad realization that I would never become a world-famous dodge ball champion. It just wasn't in the cards for me. I would step onto the gym floor, my biceps clenching in my Limited Too T-Shirt, only to be pelted in the head by multiple dodgeballs at once. Stupid boys and their stupid ability to throw and dodge simultaneously.

Those first dodge balls hurt, but I was a resilient little pigtailed brat. I kept trying. I quickly learned that basketballs hurt when you catch the pass with your face. Baseballs hurt if they mistake the bat with the side of your head. I could not successfully headbutt a volleyball without falling over. And softballs? Contrary to popular belief, softballs are NOT soft.


Yes. I was THAT girl.


Elementary school came and went and I became a very un-sporty teenager who luckily found several un-sporty friends. We would run away screeching during our pathetic excuse for class volleyball tournaments and use our baseball gloves to fight sun glare as we chatted about dances. During football "games" we would stake out spots as far away as possible, fearing the pigskin's collision with our craniums. I didn't even have to be PLAYING the game in order for me to get injured. I just need to be within 100 yards of a soccer game or a football scrimmage to get bonked in the head.


One balmy night in college my friends decided to play a friendly game of frisbee. "Oh! Frisbee!" I thought, "I will surely be safe, for it is not a ball at all. It is a flat object that usually moves slowly." As usual, I was wrong. My last memory was talking to my friend about class when suddenly --- BAM!--- I felt a sharp thud on the back of my head. The next thing I knew I was looking at the boy who threw the speeding frisbee standing over me asking if I was okay (and hoping he hadn't killed me via frisbee).


I am not cut out to be the world-famous Ultimate Frisbee champion, either.


Years later I was walking down the hallway of my workplace, which just so happened to be an elementary school. Why yes, the very same environment where I first had my athletic dreams crushed. Just as I passed the gymnasium a dodgeball whizzed past my head and ---WHAM--- hit the wall next to me. "Sorry!" a boy called as he jogged out to get the ball.


I will always be that girl.

Thursday, October 20, 2011

She gets it from her Mama.


It's not really a secret. If you know me, you know that I am

Clumsy.

Not even in that "wow look, lauren totally tripped while trying to catch public transportation" type of way. I'm clumsy in that tragic "oh no, lauren totally broke her toe while getting into the shower and then fell down the steps and busted her face on a towel rack and hit her head on the toilet on the way down"  kind of way. 

When I was a child, my family quickly became accustomed to my lack of motor skills and ability to avoid flying objects (i.e. balls). The sound of falling down the carpeted steps or screaming bloody murder over a stubbed toe became white noise in our whirlwind of a household. 

One instance in particular that always strikes me as a great example of my clumsiness happened while I was in 9th grade. Being the complete spaz that I am, I was flying around the kitchen and talking non-stop at my mother who I'm sure was using all her will-power not to knock me out with a rolling pin.

"Get out of the kitchen now! You are driving me insane."

"Nope. Never! HAHA!" I said, doing a lap around the island, causing the steam coming out of her ears to become visible.

"Get out! Now! If you don't I'll make you clean up the entire kitchen."

Hearing this, I squealed, did a spin in the opposite direction, took two steps toward a sprint, felt the carpet slip out from under me, completely lost traction, hit my knee on the island, fell to the ground and hit my forehead on the barstool on the way down.


My mom sighed heavily. "Seriously, Lauren. I'm going to make you do the dishes."

My mother has no right to judge me.
Where do I get this monstrosity of a character trait?
I get it from my mom.

My dear mother is so accident prone that by the time she was 20 my entire extended family had already dubbed her "Calamity Jane." Interestingly enough, my friends call me "Hurricane Bill." I don't know why it's Bill. Please don't remind me that the nickname makes no sense. I'm sure it held some significance at some point. I'm sure.

When I was in second grade, I thought I would be a good idea to bring my mom in for show and tell. Bring in something you love? I love my mom! Awww! Great idea. Lauren is so darned sweet. Everyone else is going to bring in their ratty stuffed dogs and their drool-crusted blankets. I rock. You suck. Win.




The morning of my fantastic everyone-is-looking-forward-to-Lauren's-turn show and tell extraordinaire my mom went to the grocery store. Passing through the garden section, she stopped to smell a nice looking flowering plant. "Oh look," she must have thought, "a sweet flower for me to smell! It is so nice and harmless looking." That's when said plant unleashed its fury. 




After a trip to the ER, it was concluded that my mom had cut her cornea on the deadly spiteful grocery store plant. She was given some strong meds to deal with the pain and an eyepatch. That's right folks! A good old-fashioned strappy black eyepatch. 

Somehow, she still made it to my show and tell.


I think I still had the best show and tell that day. MY mom was the drugged up pirate.






UPDATE: Today I slipped crossing the road and a homeless guy laughed at me.