As I got older my morbid lack of coordination became less of a bone of contention in my personal relationships. After a certain point you just learn how to avoid any situation where you’d have to do anything remotely physical. You forget what the humiliation of kickball feels like. You move on. At least that’s what I thought. Then my boyfriend suggested we going on a double date to the bowling alley.
I wasn’t even really nervous or worried. It had just been so long since I had used my arms, I kind of just forgot how they looked when they tried to do things. I mean bowling seems easy enough. Everybody can roll a ball down a slippery wooden hallway, right? Wrong. I did my usual song and dance. The whole “I’m-so-quirky-and-adorable-that-no-matter-what-happens-im-just-gonna-giggle-my-way-through-this” act that I’ve clung to my whole self-deprecating life. It was kind of my trademark thing. I have always been convinced that if you giggle enough it makes the situation less embarrassing. It didn’t work. I was awful. I literally guttered every ball and you could cut the pity-laced tension in the alley with a knife. I could tell that everyone felt like they’d seen a special needs child get bullied in the hallway or something. That night as I went to bed I vowed never to touch a bowling ball again.
Eventually that fateful night faded into my memory and I continued with my life, until I made the mistake of mentioning that I wasn’t that good at bowling to my mother over dinner one evening. I could tell she was overly concerned, as she usually was. I could see the wheels turning in her head, but I was in no way prepared for what was next.
She woke me up early the following Monday and announced that she had enrolled me in private bowling lessons. I was mortified but I showed up to the alley at 3pm sharp like I told. I picked a table and waited there pouting, until my instructor walked through the door. She was like an angel in wrangler jeans, Kswiss sneakers, and one of those tans that you can tell has been maintained for way too long. I knew right away this was going to be EXACTLY like Tuesdays with Morrie. She reached out her hand to meet me and as if someone from deep within was speaking for me, I locked eye contact with her and said, “Mold me.”
By the end of that hour-long session, I was hooked. Granted I hadn’t knocked any pins down yet but I had learned pretty much everything I needed to know about my “coach.” She knew how to fly a plane, had like 60 college degrees, used to be a professional chef in Vegas, had a bunch of time shares, home colors her hair, lives in a mobile home just because she’s a free spirit, is dating like five guys at once that she met on Zoosk, and didn't want me to call after 9pm because she will be busy with one of her boyfriends. Did I mention she installed her own sauna in her mobile home? Usually I’d be annoyed that my bowling instructor was more interesting then me but I was pretty positive she was my spirit animal.
I made an appointment for everyday that week. The second day, she showed me how to hold my shoulders and swing my arm to ensure a straight delivery. She winked at me and told me it was her little secret that she was sharing with me. The third day we drank green tea and talked about these diet pills she took that aren’t yet approved by the FDA. The fourth day she showed me how to “slide and swing.” The fifth day we talked about her divorce. By the end of the week I had my own ball, bag, shoes, slide sock (bet you don’t know what that is do you?) and I was signed up for her league.
Though I’m really not much better at bowling, I took some very important lessons away from my time with Coach. You know, like never invite two guys you’re dating to Buffalo Wild Wings to watch a Giants game at the same time and that every girl should know how to repair the drainage system in her shower.
