Attack of the killer cub scouts . . .
This is what happens when you play soccer with a bunch of rowdy 8 and 9 year-olds and their dads. And/or this is what happens when you're a has-been soccer player who stills thinks she's got her skills . . . and should really rethink that thought . . .
I'm having a slight identity crisis. Help me through this. Here's the issue: as we age and meet in groups, the women tend to sit around chatting and the guys and kids play. Well, I want to play, too. Granted, sometimes I love to chat, but why do we woman feel like we can't get out there and revel in the competetive spirit right alongside the guys? I admit I've lost the "edge" in my competitiveness; I think being a mom and having to give up/give in so often will do that to you. BUT, I still love a good, rowdy game.
I run into this problem on Thanksgiving, too. The guys go play football while the women get the meal ready. Why? Why can't we play then get the meal ready? I'm guessing that the guys are glad we don't step in there because then they'd have to be more careful. No more asserting their machismo 'cause we might end up in the hospital with a broken arm or something. And then who'd get that turkey ready?
Well, it's a real bum deal. I'm choosing to rebel against the stereotypical male/female roles. I'm gonna keep on playing because sometimes I'm hungry for a little sweat, a little trash-talk. Does that make me masculine, butchy? Frankly, if I was a guy I'd think it was pretty sexy (I wonder if Ben thinks it's sexy?) . . .but I'm not a guy, so what do I know?
Have I opened a can of worms? Hmm . . .