While it is true you will never find this girl in a gym, I do admit to swimming, walking and I was a tennis girl for about twenty years.
While those halcyon days at the club are gone, I do still walk around. Just the other day I went to the Railroad Park with GrandBears 1 and 3. Spent the day’s remainder on the couch. Rarely do I hike. If you remember, it’s on a hike that The Norwegian dropped dead so I tend to get all flashback-y when I venture to the woods.
The Goddess and friends play pickleball on Wednesdays.
“You have to come. You’ll love it. All those years of playing tennis.” She has a point. Tennis was fun. With cute skirts. And trim legs. And muscled arms. Although I doubt pickleball can tone my arms with its tiny paddle and mini court.
No skirt. Don’t appear too eager. Good choice as no one else is skirted. Rules are different. Underhand serve. Keep out of the kitchen. Yes, that’s a thing. And no smashing a volley at the net. Where is aggression supposed to go?
It takes a bit, but pretty soon we’re in rhythm. The wiffly ball is going overhead. I turn to run, connect with the ball hoping to send it back for game point. One foot says absolutely not and sends me ass over teakettle into the fence, sliding across the concrete. Of course I say the f-word. I’m a lady like that.
“Are you all right? Can you move?” It must have looked as bad as it felt.
My beloved sunnies, prescription, are smashed to bits. There is blood on the concrete. Horrified faces surround me. Blood pours from my forehead. My arm hurts. Three gouges, all impressively gushing.
“Do you feel woozy? Are you okay.”
“Was that in?” No one answers. Pfft.
We sit for a while. “No, I’m fine.”
Driving home, questions lurk. Did I really hurt myself? Do I have a concussion? Are you supposed to go to sleep with a concussion? If I don’t wake up how long before someone finds me? I call Middle Chicken. “Come over now,” says she.
GrandBear 2: “Mémé, oh no. You need a bandaid.” By now, I am a little woozy. Middle Chicken, upon the advice of Southern Boy, now our fam doc (remember he married Baby Chicken in May), says go.
At the ER, a CT and x-ray of the elbow is in order. But first some other easy tests.
“Can you raise your eyebrows?” I look at Middle Chicken and we laugh.
“Nope. Botox.” Both nurses, and my fun doc, laugh along with us. If you can’t have fun in the ER where can you?
The CT and x-ray say concussion. No brain bleed. Excuse me–didn’t know that was on the menu. Yes, you can go to sleep. You may feel out of it for a few days.
I will play again. It’s a 2025 goal to actually get off the couch. And I’m gonna need a place to put that aggression once I see the ER bill, non?
The Duchess Diaries 