Holly Blog 14: Flag Football Fail

I woke up this morning and was ready for another day of adventures. I go to put on my bra and felt a jab in my armpit.

“Dear Lord, please say this isn’t so.” But it was so. My white-tipped underwire had peeped out of its home and was causing discomfort. My bra is now broken. I’m not really sure how to describe the immediacy, catastrophic, and tragic situation this has put in my in to my reading audience. My blessedness was unleashed and I had to use my sports bra—the one that block air trying to get through my trachea. Choosing between breathing and not scaring the entire United States of America with my “gift from the Holy Spirit” as my Mom calls them is such a life-altering decision. I choose to not breathe.

This may be my last blog entry.

We had a two-hour afternoon sports and games segment within staff training today. It was…um…a two-hour segment. Not really sure if I’d call it fun. They explained the rules of the game, but I was still lost. Like, what is a “down”? And a “hike”? I thought “down” was the opposite of up and a “hike” was a nature walk. Clearly not in flag football lingo.

I did at the end of the game catch somebody or did some sort of defensive mechanism thingy and our team was able to score a point, but I didn’t even know we scored until 10 minutes after leaving the field. There is no word in the entire English language to describe my state of complete loss and confusion whilst playing.

I remember one time, apparently I had checked out too early during our “huddle” time (not a synonym, although it rhymes, to cuddle which is only an appropriate activity for married couples). I miss the phrase “pass the ball to Jenaya.” So when we did the play, everybody on my team was blocking and the ball was passed to me. I froze and yelled, “AAAAAHHHHH!!!! WHAT DO I DO WITH THIS?!?!?!?!” Needless to say, we didn’t make any yardage on that play.

My only schema in relation to football was watching incredibly attractive young brown men with lots of muscles run back and forth on a field at my school where my status is now “alumnus.” I really didn’t care about anything and our team was not very talented in the least so all I had to do really was cheer when everybody else cheered and weep when one of my fake husbands got sacked on the field.

I guess I should pay more attention. But I kinda like being clueless. Learning the rules of football is not something I would like to sacrifice brain neurons for. I’d much rather watch and make permanent memories of the masculine, athletic blessedness. Football = muscles = happy Jenaya.

The End.