We had a strange experience last night leaving the student recreation center. (We are going to the Rec center several evenings a week to use The Machines. I wasn’t satisfied with just being a wimp, I have to actually prove my wimpiness by lifting weights for a month, and then still struggling to use the machines on the lowest setting. But I’ll continue, for I know with perseverance that one day I’ll be able to move to setting two.)

Anyway, we were on our way out last night when Michael pointed at the multipurpose court we were walking by. “Look at that!”
“Where? At what?” I asked.
“They’re playing dodgeball!”
“WHAT?!”
I’ll be. They were playing dodgeball. Mixed groups, and although there were predominantly guys, there were females there—and a far greater proportion of females than play basketball.
We walked slowly towards the door, staring at the games as we went by—they were playing in not just one, but two of the courts. We stopped to watch the game that looked like it was winding up.
Michael stared intently at the court. “I wanna play! I wanna play!”
I looked at him incredulously. “You what?”
“I wanna play dodgeball!”
“You WHAT?!”
“I love dodgeball! I was good at it!”
“You were?!”
“Sure! I was small and quick and agile!”
“And now,” I said, “you aren’t.”
He ignored that comment and we watched the game end, as one of the four guys on the far side caught the ball thrown by the last guy on the near side.

I was surprised. It looked kind of fun.

But I am NOT interested in playing. I too may have been small and quick and agile when I was younger, but I also lacked hand eye coordination and was painfully clumsy. No, I won’t be playing dodgball, thank you. But I wouldn’t mind watching.

I bet it still stings when you get hit in the side of the face.