0
0
Maybe it was the tequila talking. No, I’m sure it was the tequila talking.
“Let’s all go bowling and get matching shirts! Come on, it’ll be so much fuuuun,” I screamed at my friends, practically jumping up and down in my coveted seat at the bar in the overcrowded Mexican joint that was hosting our kids’ school fundraiser.
Spinning around to face the bartender, with whom I was now on a first name basis, I continued on my rant, barely pausing to take a breath, “Raul…yoo-hoo. You are just so cute—are you old enough to be working behind that bar? Can I have another Margarita, pleeeze?”
“Do you want a new glass?” handsome Raul earnestly asked as he leaned over and put one elbow on the bar while he held onto the pitcher of Margaritas with his opposite hand. Staring at his young, fun-loving face, I mentally gave the high-five to “cougars” the world over, “Way to go, all you Demi Moores, way to go!”
But alas, Demi Moore I am not. I answered Raul with my best housefrau charm, by scrunching up my face and scolding “Noooooo! I don’t need a new glass,” as if I had to wash the glass myself at the end of the night. Further proving that you can take Mama out from behind the kitchen sink, but you can’t make her drop the sponge, I added, “Why bother dirtying up a new one when this one is perfectly fine?”
Raul quickly poured his potently pre-made drink into my used glass. The salt had all but gone from the rim, but just a little trace slid down the side. Taking a deliciously cold sip and winking a “thanks,” I turned back around to resume the serious business of bowling recruitment. “Okay, so who wants to be on the bowling team?”
When Laura volunteered, “I have a bowling shirt,” and Christy quickly added, “I have my own ball and shoes, too,” I was shocked; happy, but shocked.
“You do? This is great. Together, we have one real outfit. Who gets to wear it first?”
I could feel the excitement in the group as we started to plan our first practice session. Maybe it took a little tequila to help me come to terms with what’s been missing in my life; simply, a little F-U-N. Nothing sounds more rebelliously fun to a group of organized, responsible mothers than the prospect of hurling a big, heavy rock down a shiny, clean wood floor, with the goal of making as much of a mess as possible—and to hell with cleaning it all up.
But, I thought, these girls know what they’re doing. They even have the proper equipment. I’ve been talking a good game, but I’ve never bowled without my kids. I’ve never bowled without using the gutter bumpers.
I started to sweat. Was it getting hot in here?
“Raul, can I have an ice water, please?”
I listened to Laura and Christy compare bowling averages and cursed that damn tequila. Here I am, talking my way onto a bowling team, and I don’t even know how to bowl. Who knew I was preaching to subscribers of Bowling World? Well, I guess I’ll just add to the good time by providing the comic relief with my less-than-stellar skills. How could I ever talk my way through a poor bowling performance anyway? Then it hit me, like a bowling bowl screaming down the lane.
“Hey Raul—I hear the bowling alley’s looking for a bartender who makes a killer Margarita.”
