Rejuvenile

Am I a Rejuvenile? Let's consider the evidence. I pay my taxes on time, don't let my dishes pile up in the sink, eat dinner at my dining table with real plates and silverware, and I don't sleep past 8am but about once a month. I love broccoli and can find a dessert "too sweet." I don't bite my nails and I read the articles in the paper, but hardly ever the comic strips. I now even have a mortgage, and the need to "catch up on some yard work." Sounds pretty grown-up, right?

Well, maybe not. I think that perhaps I am, at heart, a young one. I'm not talking about Nigel Planer and his ilk. Wow, I just used a Young Ones reference and the word "ilk" in the same breath. I guess I even confuse myself when it comes to adult-town and teen-ville, especially when I have to choose which place I want to hang my hat. Or my skateboard. I suppose I commute from one to the other, and there's really nothing truly wrong with that, is there? I can still rock out to some Sleater Kinney but secretly think that it can be a bit LOUD sometimes. It's just how I roll.

Oh, who am I kidding. This whole post is just a fancy-dance way to tell ya'll about my kick ass kickball team. The Is-Librarian-Girl-a-Rejuvenile debate will cease here immediately. I am on a kickball team. In a league. Pass the Peter Pan Pixie Dust.

So, last night the K-ball team showed up with limber toes ready for kickin'. We made such a valiant effort, I can't even tell you. We started out strong, with Jenny getting on base with a powerful grounder into left field. Then Nordic Boy got up to the plate and pounded it out into the far outfield, and both he and Jenny rounded those bases and brought it all home. First time out, and we are up two runs. Delicious. I felt bad for the other team, who almost had to forfeit due to lack of players. They squeaked through with a minimum of 7 people, and I felt like we overwhelmed them with sheer numbers. It's the kickball deluge, dudes. We are swarming all OVER you!

Well, the swarm didn't last long, because they were hungry. Despite some heroic plays on our part (including Nordic Boy turning a full somersault after catching the ball in mid-air, like some kind of kickball Pele), this other team started to cream us. Whipped, frothy, Cool Whip cream. No matter. We forged on. I'll say this for our team. We are not ones who want to walk to the bases by balling each pitch. We do not want to let those puppies go by. What's the name of the game, after all? Are we here to kick or not? Our team, whenever given the chance, even when the ball wasn't rolling exactly over the plate, friggin' WENT FOR IT. It was awesome. Timid little peonies, we are not.

On the car ride home, Nordic Boy and I talked about how much fun we had, and that everyone else seemed to have a blast too. "Too bad we lost, though," I started to say. "Oh no," he replied in that zen way he has. "Losing is much more...noble."

Just when I think to myself what an adult thing to say, he adds: "plus, our team was way more BALLS OUT!"

Rejuvenile. Hells yeah.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl