veeball.

Is the world coming to an end? Yesterday while driving to my grass league volleyball game, 3 of my 4 go-to radio stations were playing Enrique, Enrique and Britney. And the other station was airing ads. Gross. I didn't know what to do with myself, so I turned off the radio and called my friend Heidi. After that my poor team got crushed a little on the grass courts (3-W : 3-L . . . no bueno)

Then. Last night I dreamt some wild dreams. I was in bread & cup, my old stomping grounds, for Lord-only-knows-why (A sandwich maybe? Come to think of it, I did go to sleep hungry . . . ), Kevin--boss-man--was there, and a bunch of my people. Then I opened my tax return and saw that it was written for over $10,000.00. Then I met up with my guy and my dream turned into this whirlwind of happy things. Then I woke up and realized I have yet to receive my tax return. Damn.

I think all of this volleyball is starting to tucker me out. Three leagues = 5 games of newbie v. veteran action per week. The vets to the league really are hilarious to me. All-knowing, all-powerful, all . . . mighty? Boo to that. Being a newb in the adult league vball world is not unlike being the new kid at summer camp. People don't really want to let you in, but they'll be nice to a certain extent . . . until they decide there's something you can do well (i.e. make a killer birdcage out of popsicle sticks, glue some mad glitter shapes to a piece of construction paper, or bedazzle the shit out of your camp hat). Granted, I never actually went to a summer camp like that, but considering my favorite movie is still The Parent Trap (the original . . . stop judging), I feel like I know a thing or two about camps. And for the record, some summer camps really just shouldn't exist. But that's another story for another day.

It's really amazing to see what some of these vet teams can do. You look at any given group and might see this: 1 pot-bellied guy, two older once-athletic (maybe, sort of) women, and one guy who probably runs twice a week (mayyyybe 3x) to maintain the definition in his calves. So obviously as an active twentysomething you overlook the fact that they know the game, know how to cheat, and could probably eat you alive. And would if it meant winning. They pull crap shots, kill it when you least expect it, and can throw a wicked spin on a serve that may or may not be aimed directly at your face. With all of this information digesting, I've taken on the personal challenge to throw all of that right back in their faces. Playing the game "well" just isn't cutting it, but then again I don't want to become a lazy muffin-topper whose underhand serve is the demise of the other team. Ohhhhhhhhh heavens, what a conundrum.

And that is what I'll be thinking about all day. Awesome.