Sunday, May 16, 2010

Calling It Even With the Girl Scouts

I've had my issues with the Girl Scouts and the way those big-eyed twerps sell irresistible product that makes my pants really, really tight. It's possible that I have called them adorable little minions of Satan. Which, okay, might be getting a little vitriolic towards a bunch of little girls, but I can eat a box of Samoas so fast that I hardly know what's happened, and it goes straight to my ass. And, well, I don't have a lot of willpower about not eating delicious things, or saying no to big-eyed girls trying to raise money for their troop's camping trip (yes, I should probably write a check and not take the cookies. But the cookies are so good). It's probably a good thing that I actually enjoy exercise.

This year, however, as I began my ritual cursing of the Girl Scouts because my pants felt like too-tight sausage casings, something really, really nice happened.

The goal-scoring floodgates opened. At first, I couldn't figure out what had happened. I wasn't exercising. I hadn't been practicing. I hadn't been thinking about how to learn to make a move (something I am notorious for not being able to do. Tricksy on the ice, I am not). No. In fact, the only thing that I could think of that had changed was 5-10 additional pounds on my ass, which in hockey? Is not necessarily a bad thing. And the reason, besides regular winter cake-weight? Girl Scout cookies.

If it had only been a hat trick, one game, I might have still felt kind of resentful. But... this is braggy and show-offy and annoying, but it's never, ever going to happen to me again, so I may as well crow: I scored 5 goals in a game. And had an assist (same game). It would have qualified me for greedy pig status (it's rude to keep scoring after a hat trick, unless the score is close), but the game finished at 6-5, my team's win. And it kept happening. Hat trick. Goals and assists and goals and assists and... I was so happy. It didn't matter to me that a shrimpy, legally blind 8-year-old with a fear of the puck was tending net, because, look, you just shouldn't get choosy about what kind of goal to get happy about, especially when you and everyone on ice around you knows that you will never again score 5 goals in a game.

So I decided (and I'm sure this is very exciting) to call it even with those big-eyed, pernicious purveyors of pant-seam doom.

Although... my bathing suit is looking awfully small just about now.

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