Mishandling balls...or should I say Miss Handling Balls

When I was in the 2^nd or 3rd grade - maybe it was 4^th I have no idea -  there was this game we’d play during PE called Bombs Away. How I adored that game! It was basically catch, but with a volleyball net in the way. The class was split into two teams and the whole point was to throw the ball to the other side to whoever looked like they couldn't catch a clue, much less a ball. If they dropped it, they were out.  Last person standing was the winner of Bombs Away.

One beautiful day in the  2^nd or 3rd grade - maybe it was 5^th who knows -  I happened to be one of the last two kids standing. This had never happened before in ALL OF MY LIFE. I had the ball – the ultimate advantage. I could throw that damn thing anywhere I wanted – short or long, left or right, and my opponent would either have to skin some knees and kiss the concrete to catch it or grow 20 foot arms to snatch the ball from the very back right corner of the play area I would aim for. As long as I didn't throw it outside the lines, I was destined for what I thought was a mathematical certainty – VICTORY.

I plotted and planned, walked the length of the net, and thought of myself as a tiger. ("Ok Katy Perry, calm down," says you and the rest of the world). I then went for the lob of all lobs and threw that fucking thing right into the net where it proceeded to bounce back onto my side and roll off my shoe. Did that burn? Like the sun. LIKE THE SUN.  Did I want to pull a Bruce Irvin? Yes. But no, I shook hands and offered my congratulations.

A scorching hot, ten-thousand pound boulder of shame and frustration bloomed in my prepubescent chest  that day and I have never forgotten that moment. Oh, there have been many, many – MANY -  times since then where I have been hoisted by my own petard, but that one holds a very special place in my heart. And it all came back after watching the end of yesterday’s Super Bowl game.

I know not much about football except that the goal is to run the ball to the opposite end of the field.  Especially if you’re already at the 1 yard line, right? You just run…since you’re like right there, right? Anyway, I only watch the Super Bowl for the good food, great friends, and funny commercials...although there weren't too many funny ones this year. Most were really depressing.

  Um...are you freaking serious? 

I admit, my Bombs Away experience is only slightly less impressive than failing at the Super Bowl, but I  recognized that look on the quarterback’s face.  For a moment, I was one with him – whatever his name may be. Shine bright like a diamond, friend. I feel you.

That’s what I've decided to do anyway (again).  Shine bright! After eating my weight in tacos, chips, guacamole, meatballs, sausage dip, fritos, and alcohol infused Oreos yesterday, I  decided to put my fork down, flip it, and reverse it.  Missy Elliot, you look good, gurl.

I realize that there are a lot of reasons why I eat. None of them are very good ones (except for the occasional bout of hunger), but I’m tackling these issues one bomb at a time. I have an addiction. I'm glad it's not crack. Sometimes I’m going to drop the ball. I will most likely continue throw it at the net time and time again. But every day I’m going to keep moving towards the opposite end of the field so I can score my own poop down. 

 I have my first session with a trainer tonight. I'm really excited! Just knowing this is happening has kept me on the straight and narrow today with my eating and drinking. The past few weeks I have been downing large cups of Vietnamese iced coffee every morning. Do you know what that's made of? Sweetened condensed milk (AKA cream of the gods). I can't. I need this in my life, but I won't. I just can't. 

Anyway, like Madonna says, I'll update on the progress of my training IF I live to tell. I will. I have a dress to wear in June that I've been waiting a very long time to put on. 

Love, light, and Ligaya - CS