I'm sorry, but you're just not the "dodgeball" type. Maybe you should get a doll?

For some reason I can't explain, I have never been able to play any sport that involves a fast-moving ball.

Balls (you know, the sporty game kind) have always had this strange magnetism to my skull. No matter the game or venue, the ball will find it's sneaky little way to my head. In other words, I always get hit with the ball. Always. Hard.

I think it all started in elementary school when I first came to my sad realization that I would never become a world-famous dodge ball champion. It just wasn't in the cards for me. I would step onto the gym floor, my biceps clenching in my Limited Too T-Shirt, only to be pelted in the head by multiple dodgeballs at once. Stupid boys and their stupid ability to throw and dodge simultaneously.

Those first dodge balls hurt, but I was a resilient little pigtailed brat. I kept trying. I quickly learned that basketballs hurt when you catch the pass with your face. Baseballs hurt if they mistake the bat with the side of your head. I could not successfully headbutt a volleyball without falling over. And softballs? Contrary to popular belief, softballs are NOT soft.

Yes. I was THAT girl.

Elementary school came and went and I became a very un-sporty teenager who luckily found several un-sporty friends. We would run away screeching during our pathetic excuse for class volleyball tournaments and use our baseball gloves to fight sun glare as we chatted about dances. During football "games" we would stake out spots as far away as possible, fearing the pigskin's collision with our craniums. I didn't even have to be PLAYING the game in order for me to get injured. I just need to be within 100 yards of a soccer game or a football scrimmage to get bonked in the head.

One balmy night in college my friends decided to play a friendly game of frisbee. "Oh! Frisbee!" I thought, "I will surely be safe, for it is not a ball at all. It is a flat object that usually moves slowly." As usual, I was wrong. My last memory was talking to my friend about class when suddenly --- BAM!--- I felt a sharp thud on the back of my head. The next thing I knew I was looking at the boy who threw the speeding frisbee standing over me asking if I was okay (and hoping he hadn't killed me via frisbee).

I am not cut out to be the world-famous Ultimate Frisbee champion, either.

Years later I was walking down the hallway of my workplace, which just so happens to be an elementary school. Why yes, the very same environment where I first had my athletic dreams crushed. Just as I passed the gymnasium a dodgeball whizzed past my head and ---WHAM--- hit the wall next to me. "Sorry Ms. LaMack!" a boy called as he jogged out to get the ball.

I will always be that girl.

She Gets it From Her Mama.

It's not really a secret. If you know me, you know that I am

Clumsy.

Not even in that "wow look, lauren totally tripped while trying to catch public transportation" type of way. I'm clumsy in that tragic "oh no, lauren totally broke her toe while getting into the shower and then fell down the steps and busted her face on a towel rack and hit her head on the toilet on the way down"  kind of way. 

When I was a child, my family quickly became accustomed to my lack of motor skills and ability to avoid flying objects (i.e. balls). The sound of falling down the carpeted steps or screaming bloody murder over a stubbed toe became white noise in our whirlwind of a household. 

One instance in particular that always strikes me as a great example of my clumsiness happened while I was in 9th grade. Being the complete spaz that I am, I was flying around the kitchen and talking non-stop at my mother who I'm sure was using all her will-power not to knock me out with a rolling pin.

"Get out of the kitchen now! You are driving me insane."

"Nope. Never! HAHA!" I said, doing a lap around the island, causing the steam coming out of her ears to become visible.

"Get out! Now! If you don't I'll make you clean up the entire kitchen."

Hearing this, I squealed, did a spin in the opposite direction, took two steps toward a sprint, felt the carpet slip out from under me, completely lost traction, hit my knee on the island, fell to the ground and hit my forehead on the barstool on the way down.


My mom sighed heavily. "Seriously, Lauren. I'm going to make you do the dishes."

My mother has no right to judge me.
Where do I get this monstrosity of a character trait?
I get it from my mom.

My dear mother is so accident prone that by the time she was 20 my entire extended family had already dubbed her "Calamity Jane." Interestingly enough, my friends call me "Hurricane Bill." I don't know why it's Bill. Please don't remind me that the nickname makes no sense. I'm sure it held some significance at some point. I'm sure.

Show and Tell Gone Wrong 

When I was in second grade, I thought I would be a good idea to bring my mom in for show and tell. Bring in something you love? I love my mom! Awww! Great idea. Lauren is so darned sweet. Everyone else is going to bring in their ratty stuffed dogs and their drool-crusted blankets. I rock. You suck. Win.

The morning of my fantastic everyone-is-looking-forward-to-Lauren's-turn show and tell extraordinaire my mom went to the grocery store. Passing through the garden section, she stopped to smell a nice looking flowering plant. "Oh look," she must have thought, "a sweet flower for me to smell! It is so nice and harmless looking." That's when said plant unleashed its fury. 

After a trip to the ER, it was concluded that my mom had cut her cornea on the deadly spiteful grocery store plant. She was given some strong meds to deal with the pain and an eyepatch. That's right folks! A good old-fashioned strappy black eyepatch. 

Somehow, she still made it to my show and tell.


I think I still had the best show and tell that day. MY mom was the drugged up pirate.

UPDATE: Today I slipped crossing the road and a homeless guy laughed at me.

Let it Snow

Earlier this week, something terrible descended upon the small little state of Delaware. Something disastrous, menacing and murderous.

Snow.

Now, just for clarification purposes, the lovely residents of the First State are a pretty resilient and hearty group of people. Delaware is beaten up by hurricanes, floods and the occasional rogue tornado. A little rain never hurt anyone... but when the stuff freezes the whole state goes into a emergency frenzy.

It all started on a chilly day earlier in the week. It was just below freezing outside, (which of course sent my coworkers into a frostbitten panic and everyone was piling on scarves, goggles, mittens, waterproof earmuffs, thermal underwear, arctic gear and boots, wondering how they would ever survive) and there were “rumors” of flurries later in the afternoon.

Having spent the past four years of my life in the mountains of central Pennsylvania, snow doesn’t even cause a glimmering hint of excitement or even a reaction at all. I spent so many days and nights lugging my butt around in 12 inches of snow uphill both ways that I considered building snowshoes out of my roommate’s tennis rackets or crafting a sled out of cookie sheets to get myself to work.

(There you go, kids. I just proved that it IS possible to walk uphill both ways. So HAH!)

Anyway, snow doesn’t stop me. I will push my car out of that snowbank the mean plow truck driver created around my car. I’ve done it once dammit and I’ll do it again.

So I did not give it a second thought when it started to snow lightly outside the classroom window.

I knew something was terribly wrong when I stopped by the office later in the afternoon to find several frantic parents demanding to take their children home early.

Expecting to see apocalyptic blizzard conditions outside, I rushed to the window to see… light flurries.

Confused and annoyed, I finished my day at work and we dismissed the children at regular time. 

HOWEVER, many of the buses were “stuck in severe traffic” and weren’t even at the school yet. I snuck out the side door expecting, once again, the apocolypse blizzard I kept hearing about and found… flurries.

About 1/3 of an inch of snow had accumulated on my windshield. I was pissed. This was no fun at all.

But I had no idea the fear that the 1/3 of an inch had struck into the little hearts of the Delawareans.

First of all, no one in Delaware has ever heard of road salt. Dear DelDot, if you ever read this: Salt MELTS snow! It’s really cool. If you put in on the road it will make the snow go away and stuff. It even makes ice melt too! You can drive on the road again and its probably a lot cheaper than all those costly sled dogs, sleighs and flying cars you were considering as solutions. It’s a really brilliant invention.

After driving 0.4 miles an hour to get out of the parking lot and onto the main road, I decided that I was adventurous enough to drive uphill in the apocalyptic blizzard. WRONG! A man in an SUV had tried the hill, panicked, blocked the road and got OUT of his car. So I did the only reasonable thing: I spun my car around and tried the other way.

The next few minutes were filled with sheer terror as drivers slid all over the road, losing control and hitting curbs and innocent recyclable bins. For some reason as soon as the rain froze into snow, people who have been driving for 20+ years turned into intoxicated teenagers. It took me 20 minutes to make the corner to get onto the main road. At times I considered getting out of my car and knocking on windshields to show people how to get their cars off the sides of the street.


But it was nice and toasty in my car so I turned on Top 40 radio and daydreamed about Christmas.

The flurries continued to fall and the drivers of Delaware continued to panic. As we crept along Route 41 at 3.12 mph, I watched Mercedes’ slide into ditches and BMW’s skid into yards. A man going the other direction lost control of his vehicle and slid completely around in a circle (He thought he was hot stuff and tried to hit 4 mph). People got out of their minivans and pushed other cars back onto the road. People started walking home. People started pulling over and calling for other transportation (sled dogs, probably). The air filled with smoke and the smell of burning rubber. All adherence to traffic signals was lost (RED LIGHTS??? WE DON’T USE RED LIGHTS IN THE APOCALYPSE BLIZZARD!!!!!!! WE DON’T NEED TURN SIGNALS ANYMORE!) and children cried for their mothers.*

It took me 2 hours to get home. It normally takes me 20 minutes with traffic.

The last bus pulled out of the school at 6:10 PM. School dismisses at 3:50.

Lesson of the day: Road salt solves a lot of problems. Delaware is only 37 ft wide by 429 ft long so if we all donate about 5.3 cents the cost should be covered.

At any rate, I’m going to go drink some tea and review survival skills for the real apocalyptic blizzard.

*NOTE: I didn’t see anyone get hurt. This wouldn’t be funny if people got hurt.