If I’m indoors for more than three consecutive hours in the summer, I’m either staring wistfully out the window at work, sleeping to repair my muscles, or straight deadsies.
If I’m faithful to you (and I’m going to try, but I kind of fear commitment so let’s keep this casual if you don’t mind… NO REGRETS!), you will hear quite a bit from me in coming weeks. So much so that I might accidentally reuse some clever sporty metaphors, thinking they’re fresh when they’re not. I have the same problem with sports bras.
I hope you’ll forgive me like I’ve learned to forgive myself.
And if you don’t hear from me, don’t panic. I’m sure I’m just outside playing any sport, except golf because that requires zero hustle and is for unshapely white dudes who make jokes about investment portfolios. I’m patently disinterested in any sport that makes you wear khakis, where eating a hot dog is basically expected, and where you’re almost certain to run into someone just like this guy.
So get ready for a summer of Tomboyer. This will be my first time chronicling the greatest season, and you’re in for a treat. Enjoy as I provide details on the following exciting topics:
- My inability to decline offers to play soccer, and the evolution of smelly cleats;
- Scrapes and raspberries from sliding into second, and the torturous shower that follows;
- Being surprisingly good at volleyball despite being 5’4″ and never having formal instruction beyond being Phys Ed Student of the Year in 1998 and 2001;
- Purchasing high tops and taping my ankle so I can make my long-awaited return to basketball, shooting deep threes because my percentage from 22-feet is substantially better than from 17-feet (or 12, for that matter);
- Running a six-hour ultrarace in the dead heat of July: a special on dehydration, chafing, and why carb loading feels terrible; and
- Proving that sunblock is total bullshit, and is basically just putting expensive, useless chemicals on your skin.
Get ready, nerds. Just like everything in the summer, it’s going to be awesome.