Tuesday, February 15, 2005

One of my work buddies, in a moment of misjudgment, asked if I wanted to join a soccer team a few weeks ago. This was a kind gesture, flattering in a delusional way, and the venue of these physical exertions–the Y–promised a rawness not found at other health clubs. The team would play locals in a mad, uncompetitive scrabble for the prize money. No pressure, none at all, just a few friendly games.

I said I appreciated the invitation and promptly submitted my resignation, citing this as incontrovertible evidence of my inabilities. I wouldn’t contribute anything to the game, I argued, and I would in fact actively detract from the team. Yes, it was just a drawing I found on the Internet, but the resemblance was frightening: the lack of feet, the grossly disproportionate arms, the soulless eyes, the vapid smile. Hair, even. I have hair. It wasn’t a coincidence.

Turns out I was smart to quit, dear reader, because the games were pretty intense. My co-worker came out all right, having played competitive soccer in college, and I narrowly escaped humiliation. The better part of my training unfolded on the harsh playgrounds of elementary school, where I would play full-back and charge straight at attackers, sometimes foiling their attempts by doing an epileptic dance and stealing the ball.

The time for quitting, however, is over. My health kick begins in earnest this week. Taking a cue from my work buddy, I’m going to give up refined sugar until the end of March. That’s what she’s doing for Lent, and she’s not even Catholic. Come to think of it, neither am I, but there’s an appeal to the discipline.

In past years, I was convinced Lent meant shelving sinful pleasures such as church. Maybe this year will be different. Heck, I’ve already given up puns for the most part, and today’s discussion permitted at least two or three really sweet ones. Oops.