So you know how people in their twenties and thirties like to do that thing where they think it’s so fun to join all sorts of weird leagues like softball and kickball and volleyball? Yeah, I don’t do that thing.
Well technically, I do. But I don’t enjoy it.
Every Wednesday night I’m on a beach volleyball team. And if any of my teammates are reading, I like totally love it and you can stop reading now. But to everyone else, I hate volleyball. I hate it because it hurts my wimpy little arms whenever the ball hits, I can’t serve over hand and it brings back bad memories to gym class when everyone could do cool serves but me, and it hurts my arms.
I’m either insanely competitive, or not at all. There doesn’t seem to be an in-between. And because I’m not good at volleyball, I choose to be a bad sport and hate it.
If there was a league that involved trying to keep a balloon in the air for as long as possible without touching the ground I would be all over that shit. I love “don’t let the balloon touch the ground” game. But unfortunately I haven’t found that league.
And so I play volleyball. I play volleyball because Chris says “it’s good for me.” And by that he means it’s good for me to get out of the house and be around other people because he worries my social skills are declining since the only person I talk to all day is Harlow. But I tell him that’s not true, I have a plethora of new sketch characters in my head I talk to all day long and even act out loud while I’m writing jokes… But that only seems to reinforce his point about me being a creep.
I also play for the view.
I still get jollies off of this skyline. And the fact the beach volleyball courts are set up right alongside it is pretty cool to me. Last night our game was at 9:30 so Navy Pier happened to be blasting their fireworks in the background as well.
And I play because I like our team, they’re a lot of fun. Sometimes Andy even lets the rest of us hit the ball.
But the main reason I play is because when we’re done Chris always promises to buy me beer or ice cream. Sometimes both.
Take 1. Blurry.
Take 2. Still blurry and a light is on Chris’s shoulder and face.
And take no more.