Don't Poke the Bear

I play women's doubles tennis on two teams. Both teams are going to playoffs this week. I am not in the line up for today's match because, according to the speculation of one of my team mates, I have too much fun when I play tennis. Ummm. Crickets... It's a game.

So, just like a girl with the initials H.H. told me in sixth grade, people would like me better if I acted like they do. The irony is, in sixth grade, I was the kid who was getting benched at my softball games for my uncanny ability to go more Bobby Cox than Bobby Cox on an umpire. I was the kid who wouldn't pick my best friend to be on my team at P.E. because she sucked at all sports, and I wanted to win. I was the girl in my twenties who offered to remove a guy's genitals with my bare hands and shove them down his throat during a nice, recreational co-ed softball game. In my thirties, I pissed off another girl so badly that she took a swing at me on the softball field. Her aim was off, but mine was not. I got suspended for two games, and I only punched her once!

At the time, I considered my attitude to be perfectly normal; I just happened to be a touch more competitive than others. Now, I live with perhaps, one of the least reactionary men on the planet. It really takes a good bit to ruffle his feathers. An excellent quality for someone married to me to have. Do you realize how exponentially ass-holey you look when you behave like a petulant 12 year old when you are standing next to the Dalai-Freakin'-Lama? Let's not forget that I am also the mother of two little boys who would probably rather grow up not being totally embarrassed by their wack-job mother.

News flash: if I didn't give a rats ass what you thought about me in the 6th grade, I sure as hell don't now. Have I lost my fire? Negative. The thing is, most people have their heads so far up their asses that it doesn't do any good to tell them off. So, if I choose to make tennis more about having fun and less about humiliating some unhappy housewives, and you don't like it, maybe you should take a look at your pathetic life and decide what it is that is making you so unhappy. You should also probably be glad that it has been ten years since I punched anybody.

Don't poke the bear, ladies.

Kiss my pudgy white a**, Nike.

Okay, so I have not blogged in more than a year, but something has come up that makes me really need to vent. Next week I am going on a tennis trip with a bunch of other ladies. I had
intended by this point in the year to be about 20 lbs. slimmer, but circumstances (beer and laziness to be precise) have conspired against me. So, I am a bit pudgier than I would like to be which would not be a problem except for the fact that none of my cute tennis clothes fit.
So yesterday, I went to PGA Superstore to purchase some new ones with a gift card I received from a sociopath (a story for another day), but there is a problem with the way the clothes fit. First, although my weight tends to settle around my middle, my waist is not quite the circumference of a 24 lb Thanksgiving butterball. Thus, despite the relative petiteness of
my posterior, the skirt with the appropriate fit around the waist makes my butt look like I am wearing Booty Pop panties as seen on TV. The biggest problem is trying to fit my DDs into the tiny tennis tops. They either get smashed flat or squeeze out the arm holes. I can assure you, that neither is attractive.
So this is my question. Serena Williams, tennis goddess, has more booty and boobie than most, and Nike designs clothes for her, so why the heck can't I buy them? Seriously, she has more of everything than I do: top, bottom, muscle, money, fame, and game. Why can I not just buy a tennis top that fits my assets without gaping armholes or torture?
Glad I got that off my chest.