I enjoy watching professional volleyball. In fact, in my college days in Cali, I would go to the beach to catch Karch Kiraly, Sinjin Smith, and Steve Timmons in action. If you follow professional volleyball now, you'll recognize those names--they are the announcers. The announcer's chair: the place where professional athlete's go to die; find yourself behind that mike and you know you're a has-been.
And I know I'm a has-been too, but every once in awhile when there is an opportunity to recapture my glory days, I grasp the opportunity and hold on for dear life because I know my glory days are becoming more and more distant with each passing year. This past weekend we were presented a glory days opportunity. A friend of ours from church plays volleyball every week, and
I have to say after not having played in 10 years, we didn't do so badly. We kept up pretty well with all the young'uns out on the court. And there were some young'uns...some in college even. (Since when did I become so old that I refer to college kids as "young'uns" or even as "kids"?) The old lady part came afterwards. Mark made the remark that we were going to pay for this when we tried to get out of bed the next morning, tried being the operative word. I blew it off with a mocking laugh. And then I proceeded to harrass him after the game every time he winced in pain.
So now you see why I have had to hide my own pain. Yeah, it hurts to move. And my poor tender arms may or may not be bruised for life because they haven't bumped a ball in a decade. And my knees hurt from diving after the ball. At least I dove after the ball. (Do you think I would look goofy wearing knee pads for sand volleyball?) And yeah, it is painful trying to get out of bed in the morning. But I refuse to admit these things to my husband. You better believe I'll hide my old lady self this Sunday when we do this all over again!