It took sixteen days, but I finally mucked up the whole National Blog Posting Month thing. However, I have really great (read: not so great) reasons for not writing for the past two days.

Saturday night was the big community Powder Puff football game that I mentioned on November 7th. After two weeks of practicing in frigid wind (and sometimes in my husband’s hunting coveralls), I thought I was ready.

However, I was not.

Physically, I haven’t been so soft and out of shape since 2011. Last year, I was a hard-core advocate for clean eating. When I wasn’t pumping my body full of chemicals that I couldn’t pronounce, I felt great. I looked great. I could easily powerwalk through the neighborhood at lightning speed.

Now that I’m back on the Dr. Pepper and the white sugar, I don’t feel great. I certainly don’t look great. And I sure as heck can’t powerwalk without panting or feeling like I’ve been shanked in the side with a Ginzu knife.

I’ve also packed on a whopping twelve pounds since the summer has come and gone. I blame that on grilled foods, baked potatoes and a mass consumption of summer ale. Needless to say, I am not in a very athletic form, unless Kathy Bates is considered athletic.

When game time was upon me, I doused myself in Aspercreme and marched onto the field with my incredible, hard-core teammates.

I was ready. I was going to ignore the pain that I’d developed over  two weeks of practice- the pulled groin, the aching shoulders, the overwhelming urge I had to pee at that moment- and I was going to grab those flags. Even though I knew most of the girls on the other team, I wasn’t going to go easy on them. I was going to push and pull and go all “Hulk” on e’rybody. I was going to be ahhhh-maaayyyyy-ziiiiing. The crowd was going to chant my name. Some kind of Powder Puff scout was going to be so captivated by my skills that he was going to drop his BBQ nachos to the ground as he made phone calls and prepared to sign me to the NPPL (National Powder Puff League).

For the record, I’m pretty sure the NPPL does not exist, but I was going to be so good, that it would be formed just so I could play for it.

I was playing corner on defense for the very first play. I saw the girl with the ball and she was coming my way. I was going to get that flag. She was going down, baby.

And she whipped past me, with her cheetah-like reflexes. I scrambled to catch her, but instead I grabbed a big chunk of air and the flag waving proudly from her yoga pants nearly slapped me in the forehead. This was nothing like practice. This was hard.

I figure that was the time that the scout left the bleachers, with his head hanging low as he licked BBQ sauce from his frowning lips.

When it was time for me to play on the offensive line, I braced myself for the extremely “athletic” girl that stood before me.  As soon as “hut” slipped from our quarterback’s lips, this woman plummeted into me. I felt like a deer in the way of a Dodge Ram. I may have muttered an obscenity under my breath as I tried to ignore the pain of this woman’s elbows in my chest wall. She even grunted the way Serena Williams does as she slams a Wilson tennis ball.

“Oh my God, she grunted. That woman grunted at me. Am I supposed to grunt back? I can’t possibly stop a woman that grunts. Grunting is hard-core, and I’m a delicate, soft, flower.” I told my teammate.

On the next play, I grunted. And the lady managed to fall to the ground. And I think I stepped on her hand. And I think I should have helped her up, but I was so proud of knocking someone down that I didn’t. And now I’d like to officially apologize for that. And I’d also like to thank her for teaching me to grunt.

Anyway, I was wrecked by the middle of the game as the rain poured down. Physically, I was an absolute tender, swollen mess with the strong desire to plop my derriere on the couch, drink Dr. Pepper, eat chemicals that I cannot pronounce and watch The Golden Girls. I realized more than ever that the “Powder” in “Powder Puff” referred to “BC Powder”. But, I managed to fight on as my drenched hair stuck to my sweaty forehead and my Sketchers tennis shoes slid across turf as soft as my un-toned body.

I played as hard as I could, which was semi-hard. I ran as fast as I could, which wasn’t extremely fast. I blocked and grunted as forcefully as I could, which wasn’t incredibly forceful. I was in pain, but somehow I fought through it without throwing up a white “surrender” flag, vomiting and passing out in the end zone.

And our whole team fought and played that way- hard. We were tired, panting, sweaty, sore and praying the Ibuprofen would kick in, but we played our powder puffy arses off.  We blocked, we pulled flags, we ran and we were disappointed when we lost 20 something to 7.

I didn’t write about the game that night because I was too drowsy from Ibuprofen PM and woozy from the smell of Tea Tree Oil rub, but I’m writing about it now. So there.

Despite all of that- the Ginzu-knife pain in the side, the aching muscles, the stench of menthol rub , the five bucks I spent on OTC pain killers and the defeat, I loved it. It was a great experience overall. I made new friends, I laughed a lot, I made a commitment to myself to get back in some sort of shape that doesn’t involve a soft, sphere and I learned how to grunt. Winning.

I’ve already been asked if I plan to play in next year’s game.

Only if I start eating clean again. And take steroids.

 

 

 

 

 

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