An athlete, I am not

The Smelmooo and I went to the driving range on Saturday, and I could not have sucked more. Not in the sense that, say, the ball only went 75 yards, or veered to the left, or whatever. More like, I only made actual contact with the ball once every five or six attempts. Such that, the Smelmooo asked, not at all unkindly, "Are you actually meaning to hit the ball?"

Later, we played basketball in the driveway (inspired by having watched Glory Road the night before), and I was so pathetic that we ended up just playing Horse instead, and I wound up with H-O-R-S-E three times, and I think the Smelmooo had MAYBE one H.

Really, I don't know when this happened, that I turned into this uncoordinated goon. I was the best athlete (ath-a-lete, for those who've seen Benchwarmers, which was a-maz-a-zing) in elementary school, skilled gymnast, always picked first among the girls in gym class, all-star softball team, blah-blah-blah. Actually, I know exactly when it started: stupid Chris O'Connor called me a showoff in fifth grade gym class, and I let it get to me, and then in sixth grade we had a crap-ass gym teacher who hated all the girls, and she segregated us and had the girls play duck-duck goose and make up dance routines and such while the boys played dodgeball or whatever.

So thank you, Chris O'Connor and Ms. Whatever-Your-Name-Was, for turning me into a ridiculous girly-girl and capable only of shining at the damn potato sack race.