As a youngster, I used to bowl on a league.
I KNOW! Me. The same woman who reads for fun and looks forward to a trip to the library ALSO bowled on a league. THAT is a bad-ass if I ever heard of one...
Anyhow, yes, I bowled. And I didn't suck. Hell, I had my purple ball, my red, polka-dotted bowling ball bag. I was IT, man. (Even though The Sister was WAY better than myself, however... I didn't suck).
However, I learned something this weekend. If my 24-year-old self ever bowled in a league against my 10-year-old self, The Me of My Present would get SMOKED. I SUCK.
The Fiance, He Who Golfs And Also Apparently Bowls For A Living, and I took it to the lanes this weekend with some friends. Here's a visual: Krista, in fluorescent orange and yellow, absolutely KILLER, bowling shoes, with a dumbfounded expression on her face as she grasps a 10-pound bowling ball like a baby. The Fiance, who has his OWN bowling shoes - in black, and not one, but TWO bowling balls in his high-tech bowling bag. He's all cracking his knuckles and shit while I mathematically ponder my chances of breaking a score of 52.
So, as The Fiance and his pal are bowling strike after strike after strike after spare after split after strike, I get a sympathetic high-five if I can successfully take out six pins - total.
"Honey. Hold the ball like this. Release the ball here. Keep your arm straight."
I heard that a lot. I'm all up to bowl, chanting to myself, "Straight arm, hold ball, straight arm, hold ball, RELEASE, go straight, go straight, GO STRAIGHT, straight, SON OF A BITCH!"
And I knock down two pins in the right corner. On my second attempt, it's, "Straight arm, hold ball, straight arm, RELEASE, curve left, curve left, left, left, left, SHIT. Not STRAIGHT!"
And the ball sails through the gap left by the sole two pins I knocked down the first time.
This is the point I begin using body contortion to will my ball into the proper place. After release of the ball, I tilt, one leg jutting out at hip level, to the left. With one arm I wave the ball in the direction I want it to go. With the other arm I pump my fist in the air. After the ball successfully completes NONE of the tasks I willed it to do, I release from my Yoga pose and stomp my feet.
Hell, if acrobatics don't work, temper tantrums might.
Not so much.
So, pep talks, Yoga, tantrums, alcohol and sympathy helped me sail through two complete games. And I tell you what, I didn't do THAT bad. I scored somewhere in the 60s the first game, but, by some will of God, broke 100 the second time around. And not only that, The Fiance was plagued with Crap, Apparently I CAN'T Get A Strike Every Time, and I BEAT HIM. By FOUR pins.
Next thing you know, I'll be Tiger Woods. And he'll be at home reading books.