Pray for me. If you are certified, please include Last Rites. (That's something you have to be certified for, right?)
Tonight, I am learning how to play WhirlyBall.
This can only end in tears. The last time I was in a bumper anything, I was about seven. My grandparents had taken my cousing, my sister, and me to Little Ammericka, and my sister conned me into going on the bumper boats with her, even though the engines were unhealthily (yes, that's a word, because I say so and so does Merriam-Webster) loud. It was just the two of us, because my cousins chose that opportune moment to disappear. My boat's engine cut out, and My Sister the Lawyer bumped my boat over and over while I was stranded until I cried. It took the operator about six hours (okay, probably about fifteen minutes) to figure out how to retrieve me.
Ah, the memories.
Now, I'll be adding a sports element to an activity that's already cutthroat, and I'm not exactly the most coordinated person...
Take this morning.
This morning, I decided to wear a pencil skirt. It's sort of sunny out, and I sometimes like to pretend it's spring. Everything went swimmingly until I tripped on my skirt in the bathroom. So naturally I tore the seam, which runs down the back of my skirt
And of course the hole is exactly ass-level.
If this is karma, I must have been Genghis Khan in a past life.
(True: It's a good thing I'm wearing tights.)