Jesus H. Christ on a popsicle stick. I am too far away from sixth grade to be playing softball. Let’s face it, I was merely adequate back in the 1970s. Now, I’m adequate leaning hard by sad.

In the desperate hope of hitting a base before a ball ended up in a nearby bit and the base got tagged, I chugged furiously down the baselines, pumping my chubby little legs and try to dig into the dirt. The net result is very, very, very, very sore quads. They feel less like quads than burning eights.

I typed a work email tonight, and I realized that my right index finger is feeling the after effects of a bobbled catch. I was catcher, and I forgot the glove really helps when some rockets a ball to home.

So, in summary, apart from both legs, my fingers and some nice bruises that are starting to show, I’m a fine fucking spectacle of a healthy woman. Oy.

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