Spirited. Sad And Pathetic, But Spirited.

The bowling actually went well last week. The shoulder managed to stretch itself and not demand tears from me every time I moved. The beer was copious, as were the snickers and sneers from the gruff, tobacco chewing, truck driving, chain smoking, big bellied bowlers. My team is the worst on the league, no doubt about that, but we�re also the most attractive - if I do say so myself. Not to say that it�s much of a challenge to earn the title. We�re the only team with an average age under 50. We�re the only team that isn�t covered in dirt and grease from a hard day�s work. We�re the only team whose average weight is less than their average score. I like bowling for so many reasons, but I like it most because it�s the only sport where you�re virtually guaranteed to gain weight as you play it. If only there were more sports that required absolutely no physical exertion, I�d be far more likely to get out of the house on a regular basis.

By the way, for the bowlers in the audience, I got a 130 game 1, a 196 game 2, and a 171 game 3 on a 155 average. Consistency is not my strong point. I have no idea what is, but it's definitely NOT consistency.

The breathing has been a little less successful than I initially thought. I should have known better than to trust Rhone-Poulenc so unwittingly. The nose spray was fantastic for 3 days, and then the old symptoms came back again. But, because I'm a sucker for advertising gimmicks, I bought something called RinoFlow. I still haven't figured out the title, but it's basically a fish tank air pump with a nasal attachment that shoots saltwater deep into the dark recesses of your head. It basically does nothing to help with the allergies and the breathing, but it tickles your brainstem and momentarily distracts you from your misery.

I went to a company social function yesterday. This was so unusual in itself that at one point I heard the owner of the company from the across the hills yell out, �Oh my god, is that Patrick?� I try to avoid the social hours and Christmas parties at all costs, but this was an outdoor thing held at a park very close to my house, so I figured I�d go and leave for home the second I got annoyed.

As soon as I got there, I started in on the beer, and shortly thereafter I found myself stuffed into a little plastic house near the swing set, the inside of which could just barely hold me. I opened my red plastic shutters and shouted through my knees to my bosses, �Anybody wanna buy some homemade cookies?�

It was suggested by some that we venture over to the volleyball pit and start up a game. I wandered over, with my third beer in hand, and joined in the fun. I hadn�t anticipated staying long, so I didn�t bring the shorts and tennis shoes that everyone else had the foresight to bring with them. Playing volleyball in a sand pit in slacks and dress shoes is harder than it looks, regardless of your sexual orientation or how many beers you�ve had. The very first time the ball came near me, I yelled out with confidence, �I GOT IT�� and then proceeded to move towards the ball, trip over my own feet, and fall face first into the sand. Both bad knees popped at the same time, and I landed on my bowling shoulder. I was a mess, but I wobbled back to the service line and pounded the ball back into play. Having disabled myself, I became largely a cheering section for my team as I watched them jump around the pit. Seeing as how I have no self control what-so-ever, I even did a few cheerleading cheers I remembered from watching junior high basketball. �We�ve got spirit, yes we do, we�ve got spirit, how �bout you?�

I don�t know about you, but I think it�s best that I avoid these social functions in the future. I think I scared the old conservative actuaries I�ve tried so hard to impress the last two years, but I was a big hit with the kids in their 20�s � the ones used to hearing, �Why can�t you work just a little harder, like Patrick.� Now they know the next time they�re leaving at 4:55pm and they pass my desk and see that I�m still working through a stack of 4 hours worth of work, on my way to another 60 hour work week, they can always think back to the infamous office picnic. They may not work as hard as I do, but at least they didn�t stammer up to the boss, spill beer on his shoes, and say, �If only I had a cheerleading skirt, I could REALLY get into the spirit.�