My roommate recently asked me a question that left me so taken aback, so terrified and so strangely tempted that I wasn't quite sure how to respond. ""Hey Julia, will you go bowling this afternoon?"" I know, I got the chills too.
The moment those words left her mouth, I was immediately transported to that somewhat rundown, usually vacant bowling alley in Seattle I went to every winter break growing up. It was good bonding time for my brother and me with our two younger cousins. I'd confidently chuck my ball down the lane sure I'd hit something, and not just because of the bumpers. Then I'd laugh as my little family members rolled granny-style only to make the ball tumble off the side. I was clearly the best.
But Christmas time began to change. We were told we were too old for bumpers and my cousins grew to more than four feet tall. They even weighed more than 60 pounds by now. Stupid puberty. Suddenly, they were the ones dominating the lanes and knocking down pins. And after gutter ball after gutter ball, I realized my self-assured bowling talent was only an illusion. I wouldn't speak in car rides home afterwards.
Now, it had been three years since picking up one of those taunting three-holed spheres, mostly due to fear and shame. But when I was asked to perform on this day, something inside made me agree. It wasn't until after that I realized it was actually to fill in for a team member—in a league, that competes. Sweet Jesus, I thought to myself, this is going to be bad.
As I walked through the game room in the basement of Union South, angst flooded my insides as the memory of the freshmen SOAR program haunted me. ""Okay guys, this is where you can play pool, eat popcorn and make lots of new friends!"" our darling guide told us. Let's just say that evening made me question if I had a social disorder. But still, I continued on to the alley where I immediately checked out the competition.
The ballerina-like blonde in the next lane had a very interesting technique—she swiftly whisked the ball down, square-danced a little to the left, then grabbed her right forearm. Strike. She was good. Another guy had a style that reminded me of how a soccer player kicks. He was sharp, concise and scored many goals, so to speak.
But there was one very petite woman that actually made me wonder how she got the ball rolling in the first place. With both hands, she feebly picked the ball up and dropped it in front of her. She then left to get some coffee, make a few phone calls and walk her dog. By the time she returned, it had just knocked down most of her pins.
Now it was my turn, so I with my faded red and blue feet, walked toward the lane. As I expected, my ball hit the side, where it stayed. ""Follow through, Laura! Stop looking down!"" my friend yelled from behind me. (Despite that I was simply subbing for Laura, I was called nothing else the entire afternoon.) But afterward, I took the advice and yes folks, I actually knocked down some pins. I even bowled second best on the team that day.
Being an honorary member of the Killer Dinos showed me that swearing things off is silly—there's a reason you liked it in the first place—well maybe unless it's crack. I may even fill in again sometime soon, but only if the desk promises to give me both of my shoes back this time. Some people have the cruelest sense of humor.
