Myke and I have decided to start playing racquetball together a of couple nights a week. This will accomplish two goals: Myke will actually have a form of exercise besides typing and we will have some alone time without our cranky toddler. Wearing plastic goggles and smacking a rubber ball at a wall might not be romantic for some people, but it’s free babysitting and that’s worth a lot to me. Babysitters are dadgum expensive. I was only paid 2¢ per hour when I was a young lassie but kids these days demand real money. It’s nearly minimum wage. How absurd! You can understand my attraction to the free child watch at the YMCA.
We started our racquetball dates this week and I am terrible at the game. In fact, I’m so terrible I don’t think you can categorize what I’m doing as “playing racquetball.” I mostly dart around like a dog chasing a laser pointer. A dog with a racquet in his paw. And plastic goggles obstructing his vision. Michael is not athletic but somehow he excels at racquetball. He’s quite good. (Well, I think he’s good but I’m comparing his skills to mine; he may actually suck and I would never know.) The arrangement is working out well for Myke because not only does he win every game, but he gets to witness his wife flailing around like a dervish.
By the end of the evening we both reek of body odor and have aching joints from all the racquet-swinging.
Romantic? Oh, yeah.
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