A whole lotta scorin’ going on…
After my last blog, I have a feeling I know where your mind is headed with the title of this post.
Don’t deny it, if you’re my reader, you’re probably gutter-brained too… (That’s why I like you.)
After a week of stuffing myself silly at the Erma Bombeck Writers’ Workshop (dessert after two meals = awesome) I was more than a little leery of playing soccer last night.
Less than a minute into the game, I realized I should’ve been less petrified of the extra jiggle in my thighs and more concerned with the tall, quick Hispanic (and one of them super attractive, but don’t tell Clint I said that) dudes who wailed the ball into the goal like there was no one nearby to stop them.
Wham! They scored.
Wham, wham! More goals.
We squeaked one in here and there. Jessica turned to me after Kari scored the first goal and smiled. “Well, at least it’s not a shut out,” she said.
That’s my kind of silver lining, right there.
Overall, we didn’t do horribly, although the 10 point end score would beg to differ.
At one point, i was up at the goal, open, and excited to take a shot. The ball was passed straight to my feet. I looked toward the net, found my opening, swung my leg back and then forward…
And watched the ball go sailing past my foot.
Ahh!
Absolutely embarrassing.
(Speaking of embarrassing, check out this gorgeous picture of Erma Bombeck’s granddaughter and daughter-in-law taken at the conference and absolutely ruined by yours truly. But I digress…)
Fortunately, I had a second chance toward the middle of the second half. This time, I made it.
I SCORED!
Never mind the fact that we were down by at least 9 points. I still scored.
It wasn’t a horrible game. We were all having fun, laughing, and cheering each other on. I was in charge of guarding this tall skinny chick for much of the game and had to apologize to her profusely because every time I would run up to guard her, I would run smack into her. Good thing she was a good sport about it because I was annoyed at my inability to stop on a dime.
After the game, Clint messaged me with: “Text me when you’re on your way.”
Not generally the “check up on you” type, I knew he was up to something. I texted him back to tell him I’d be there soon.
When I arrived home, he had me close my eyes and guided me to the bathroom. When I opened my eyes, I saw a completely clean bathroom, a hot bath drawn, and several candles lit around the tub. Playing on the radio was sappy love music, and my super cozy white bath robe hung on the doorway.
“I thought you might want a bath after playing tonight,” he said.
I slid into the warm water thinking I was married to the best man alive. He handed me a Vodka Collins and I knew I was married to the best man alive.
Let’s just say I wasn’t the only one to score last night.
