love.com

I'm a Bad First Date Sport

You’ve heard me talk before about Bad First Date Ideas and, specifically why one of those was a Wine Fest. However, there have been so many bad first dates involving sports that I thought they deserved their own separate story. It’s especially appropriate for the summer which is where these dates keep occurring.

I am not much good at sports. No, seriously, I suck. I played on a softball league once when I was married and I am virtually certain it is one of the reasons The Ex and I got a divorce (the other teams nicknamed me “The Strike-Out Queen” which, though it wasn’t very athletic, was at least regal). I took tennis in college. My father came to one of my tennis classes, and while I flitted “queenlike” across the court shouting “Love-This!” and “Love-That!” he looked like he was wondering where his money for a private university education was going. The instructor recommended I not take the intermediate class—please.

Don’t even get me started on pool… I like more esoteric athletic events like interpretive dance, aerobics, and cheerleading. But sports with balls are not my thing. **Insert crude, sexual innuendo here.**

However, no matter how many times you tell men this, bless their testosterone-laden hearts, they don’t listen. They tell you they don’t care if you aren’t any good and that it doesn’t matter to them. They lie.

Take batting cages. Raul wanted me to go to the batting cages. The balls are coming at me at about 500 million miles an hour. I am supposed to swing the bat, which seems like an unwise idea to me. He says that the balls are going slow, but they don’t seem slow; they seem fast…and hard. **Don't even get me started.** If I just move out of the way, close my eyes, and wait, surely they will stop coming at me eventually. Except he keeps screaming at me to “swing.” They do stop eventually, but he was frustrated and disbelieving of my lack of athletic ability.

Then there is Putt Putt. Actually, I like miniature golf. I take my daughter, Leah, and my nephews often. The problem is, my idea of Putt Putt and a man’s idea of Putt Putt are not at all the same thing. I think Putt Putt should be FUN. I know, silly me. So Alex took me to play Putt Putt. I should have known better, and in fact I did know better. But I am not the most assertive person—working on it—so there I was.

By definition, Putt Putt is kind of a silly game. Take giant giraffes, little bitty windmills, an ogre with a mouth that opens and closes, life-size mushrooms, and a hole in one resembling a pin the tail on the donkey, and it is not exactly the envy of Tiger Woods (who, incidentally recently presented the "Kevin Awards for Worst Online Dates"). So I have a hard time taking it seriously. I tend to walk around making comments like, “Fore!” and “That was a birdie for sure,” “Hmmm…which club should I use?” “What’s your handicap?” “Play it where it lies,” and “I don’t like the way my ball is lying on this shot—sandtrap.”

Plus, I completely advocate do-overs. Do-overs are important in miniature golf, and maybe in life. I think they should also be allowed in the Olympics but that’s just me. So if the people with whom I am playing deserve another shot, I’ll go ahead and move the ball back for them. Sometimes, I’ll even help them out a little bit and move it closer to the hole. Occasionally, I help out people I don’t even know. 

I’ve found that, while this works out fine with young children, this does not go over well with dates. Men in general seem to WANT to play the game r i g h t. As if playing Putt Putt had a right and a wrong. Alex ended the date by storming off and telling me I was a bad sport. I did finish my game first with a bunch of kids I knew from school. They let me help them out, and we had a grand ole’ time, do-overs and all.

But then, what do I know?  I’m a bad sport.

copyright © 2010  Tiia Jones

love.com: The Garter Belt Incident

PROFILE  RedSoxFan There’s no crying in love or baseball Active within 2 days 39-year-old man Rio Rancho, NM  United States Seeking women 30-45 Within 30 miles of Albuquerque, NM, United States Relationships: Divorced Have Kids: Yes and sometimes they live at home Want Kids: Definitely Ethnicity: Caucasian Body type: Stocky Height: 5’11” Hair Color: Brown Eye Color: Brown Smoke: Never Drink: Social drinker Education Level:  Bachelor’s degree My Job: Civil service Interests: Watching sports, baseball, playing sports, video games, music & videos, computers & technology, hiking, networking, Victoria’s Secret (LOL)

Dating Rules Broken by RedSoxFan During First Date:
1. Chewed with mouth open
2. Did not open door for me
3. Only talked about himself (Well, this is not entirely true.  Actually, he only talked about the Boston Red Sox.  They play baseball, in case you were wondering because I was a little unclear.)
4. Displayed stalker tendencies
5. Heebie Jeebie Meter was set off by a weird desire for women’s lingerie

With this kind of batting average, you’d think I forfeited or put him in the penalty box—I think that’s actually a hockey reference but my sports metaphors are a little weak—but the truth is my dating had hit a bit of a dry spell.  More like what my old rancher friend Lou Dodo (real name, there’s nothing I could make up that would be funnier, right?) used to say about farming in Western Colorado:  “It’s a drought.  It’s always a drought.  Even when we get a little rain; it’s still a drought.”

So I was willing to let a few things slide.  Ok, maybe a lot of things.  Even when he said he really wanted me to wear a garter belt and stockings for our second date.

Pre-Game Show for RedSoxFan

• Go to Victoria’s Secret to buy garter belt, panties, and stockings.  Fall over dead when they tell me the price is slightly less than my utility bill.
• Look at contraption.  It looks a little like something I’d wear for “Crazy Hat Day” at school or maybe something you’d use to muzzle a dog.  But that’s ok, because I’m tenacious.  And it’s a drought.
• Put garter belt on…upside down.
• Realize that the hookey onny thingys need to be pointing down not up and turn it the other way around.
• Slide stockings on, snagging one with fingernail.
• Get out nail polish to fix run.  Finding only red, which may ruin the smoldering sexy look I’m going for, I ask my  eight year-old for her Bonne Bell clear nail polish.
• Paint on.  Bend in half and blow on leg to dry.  Leah says, “Why are you kissing your leg, Momma.”  Don’t answer that.
• Pour glass of wine for fortification and hydration since by now I’ve worked up a sweat.
• Attempt to fasten hookey onny thingys to stockings.  It is not at all obvious how to do this.  There are no marks (connect hook A to point B on stocking) and it is more difficult than IKEA furniture.
• Upon further examination, it appears that the two pairs of hooks should be positioned opposite one another on either side of each leg.  This requires bending like a circus contortionist.
• When I finally get first pair of hooks on one stocking, I pass out from being upside-down for so long.
• Upon regaining consciousness, I refill my wine glass because I pretty much just completed a Pilates workout.
• Get VS package out of trash and consult to see if there are helpful hints because surely I’m doing something wrong.  There aren’t.
• Consult clock.  I am already one hour late for date but damn it I will be wearing hot black garters.
• Finish second pair of hookey onny thingys on one leg.
• Leah: “Mom, is that gymnastics?”
• Take deep breaths to avoid passing out again.
• Put on second stocking, and begin attaching hooks on left leg.  In the middle of the first set of hooks, the hook snags the stocking all the way up making it completely unwearable.
• Pour another glass of wine.
• Call to cancel date.  Strike three, you’re out.

copyright © 2009  Tiia Jones