Thursday, May 10, 2007

Bowling for Idiots

I am a talented woman.

I can speak in front of crowds, unplug toilets, write songs, poetry, and novels, and make a 20 minute drive to work in 11 minutes flat. (Of course, if you're reading this and you are a Williamson County Sheriff, Paul, or my mother, that last bit isn't true at all.)

But I cannot bowl worth beans.

Last night, I went bowling with friends and bowled an 81. I was PROUD of that! I bowled 1 strike, 2 spares, and only 4 gutter balls. That is a miracle of no small proportion.

Let's look at my previous attempts at bowling:

1. Last year, we went bowling as a family. The kids got bumpers on their turns. My hubby, over-ruling my vociferous protest, would not allow me to have bumpers as well. Something about "no grown woman needs bumpers to bowl". Right. The result was this:

Hubby - 190 or something equally irritating.
8 yr old - 90 something.
6 yr old - 70 something.
5 yr old using the time-honored granny approach - 60 something.
Me - 54.

And that's nowhere close to my worst.

2. One summer in high school, I stood at the lane, swung the ball to build momentum, and felt it fly backwards out of my hands and into the back of a very cute guy.

Still not my worst moment.

3. In junior high, our P.E. teacher came up with the brilliant idea of teaching a unit on bowling. We learned the theory, the technique, the problem. We had no bowling balls, no pins, no lane, no rent-a-fungus shoes - nothing.

This was easily remedied by a class trip to the local bowling alley. To pass the bowling unit, we simply had to bowl reasonably well using the aforementioned theory, technique, and strategy.

When my turn came, I grabbed my 8lb. ball, slid around in my stylin' multi-colored shoes, and prepared to dazzle my teacher. I took 3 running steps, swung my arm forward, and ran into two problems, simultaneously.

Problem 1: The bowling ball was SUCTIONED onto my fingers and refused to be released.

Problem 2: My rent-a-fungus shoes had NO TRACTION and were easily persuaded by my considerable forward momentum to leave the floor.

Result: I belly-flopped onto the lane, arm perfectly extended, ball nicely aimed toward the center pin, and slid forward several feet.

That was bad. But worse, WORSE, was the acne-coated, squeaky-voiced post-teen manning the desk who felt it necessary to get on the loudspeaker and say -
"No one is allowed onto the lane. Please get off." - thereby ensuring that anyone who happened to miss the initial landing could still partake in the shameful spectacle that was me, trying to bowl.


  1. I know what it is!

    You don't have your own bowling shoes.

    For someone with such a passion for shoes, I'm quite positive that your own pair of fabulous bowling shoes would solve all of your problems.

  2. Hmmmm, you could be on to something here.

    I've often found that the right pair of shoes makes all the difference.

    I wonder if I could bowl in stillettos?


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