My daughter had her End-Of-Basketball Season party last night. Pre-pizza, all the girls and parents met at the elementary school in Poolesville and battled in a parent-vs-kid Bball game.
Weeks before, my daughter wanted me to play. I, being the wiser of the two of us, and knowing my own limitations, declined. She begged. Pathetically.
I am immune to begging.
She groveled impressively.
I am immune to groveling.
And then she said, “Aw, you’re probably right, Mom. You shouldn’t do it. You might hurt yourself.”
I am emphatically not immune to reverse psychology.
So when time came, I rummaged through my dresser to find a pair of shorts that were 1) made for athletics, and 2) fit me. Or, at least, didn’t hurt me. It took a few minutes.
Then I had to look for a t-shirt that was 1) Big enough that it wouldn’t roll UP my belly when I bent over and 2) didn’t accentuate my hideous winter pallor. That took several more minutes.
I didn’t look good, but I wasn’t there to look good. I was there to gain my ego back from my oldest child. It’s one thing if I say I’d hurt myself; it’s quite another if she says it.
My Captain came too…as did Grandma! I believe just about all of the parents were there. Some looked uneasy, at least until they saw me. Then they relaxed visibly. They knew no one could look as bad as I did on the court and could be safe in the knowledge that the biggest goon had arrived.
The game started. Kids were pitted against parents, ‘big’ talk was being thrown about recklessly, bets were being placed.
The kids played a good clean game. The parents had to employ any and all resources at their disposal. We were picking up kids..sometimes one in each arm. We were piling on kids. At one point, I took a boy’s shoes from him. We were mis-counting the score on purpose. We dribbled when we felt like it. And not well.
And they still beat us.
But they will never know it. (Insert evil cackle here.)
They got the last laugh, though. I can’t move today. My knees, hips, crotch, abdomen, shoulders, and eyelashes hurt. All of me hurts. Mention a body part. It hurts. Mention any part of my psyche, it hurts too.
Need Motrin, Stat. And lots of it.