Racquetball. In the last month I have rediscovered my affinity for a sport where small blue balls zip past my head at unsafe speeds and I unsuccessfully attempt to smack them with a tiny racket. For reasons unknown to man, the racquetball skills possessed by my husband, who isn't the most athletic of fellows, have improved by leaps and bounds, while mine seem to be more on the trajectory of toddler-sized hops. And yet I continue to play against him a few times a week. Such a masochist. At least I am entertaining in my gracelessness. Turns out I'm kind of like the John McEnroe of the local racquetball scene (if that scene actually existed), throwing mild tantrums and swearing up a blue streak when I miss easy shots. I'm also a bit of a rebel, playing sans safety goggles despite signs posted outside the courts encouraging players to protect their peepers and the pleas of my dear friend Emily, who is convinced a ball is going to get lodged in my socket, creating a vacuum that will suck my eyeball clean out. Have I mentioned that some of my friends are insane? Anyhoo, I hear you get your endorphins pumping by putting a bike between your legs, Jason, but if you ever want to squeeze in a game or two of racquetball and come away feeling pretty darn good about your athletic prowess, just let me know. I may even consider wearing safety goggles, if you promise not to destroy me too badly.
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