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 strategy...one 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.