Runnin' Out of Firsts

Grahm and I have been together for a while now. Not so long that we're plucking the back hairs off of each other or giving one another sponge baths, but long enough that we're running out of "firsts." This isn't necessarily a bad thing; I like the "Hey let's talk about how heinous your breath is" comfortable, the I-can-fart-in-front-of-you-and-think-nothing-of-it familiar. 

And I think we'd both agree that there are a few "firsts" we didn't particularly enjoy: peeing in front of each other, sharing a toothbrush, and buying a box of tampons. Okay, that last one was just Grahm, but you get the gist.

In a "If we go to the movies again, I think I'll scream" moment, we decided to do something we'd never done together. Bowl. (Why is it called bowling? There's no "bowl." It's a ball, people. A ridiculously heavy one. Well, I guess that depends on your capabilities. If you have gummy, toothpick arms like me... you get the eight pounder, or the six pounder if you're lucky enough to find one where the finger holes are large enough for your over-cracked man knuckles.) 

After our fun escapade, I now know why we have never hurled a ball at some pins together... We're both easily frustrated and ridiculously terrible, like the we-should-probably-be-using-bumpers-but-too-bad-we-aren't-six-years-old kind of terrible. (Phew, hyphens!) Ironically, our bowling names were "Aces" and "SirStrikesAlot." Neither of those were true. It was more like "GutterGirl" and "CantAimStraight." Grahm is even worse than me, poor lefty. I will admit though, I secretly relished it (mwhaha!) because he kinda beats me at everything. Boggle and bowling (not really), that's all this chicka's got going on for her.

Bowling alleys are the definition of sketchville. They smell of shoe polish, questionable mozzarella sticks, and moist body odor. Unruly adolescents and grump-tastic old men, for some reason, all flock to the lanes like the gutters are lined with gold. Seriously, there was a two-hour wait on Friday night. (What?!) And wearing someone else's shoes is always an adventure -- by that I mean, it's utterly horrifying. Where has this shoe been? I, for one, don't enjoy being forced to pay for someone's leftover toe jam. (It's even more embarrassing when you have to ask for a child size, because they don't have an adult size small enough to fit your fetus feet.)

There probably won't be a second bowling excursion for a while, but we had a blast. We made fun of each other, looked like complete idiots next to the serious league players, and vowed to never talk smack about this strange game ever again.

...And did I mention I won 2 out of 3? (Don't tell Grahm I told you; I may have told him I wouldn't tell his bowling woes to a single soul. Apparently, he doesn't know me too well.)