Now that my back has left my service and become a minion of the devil, I notice how often I bend down. I bend down, like, all the time. My daughter is around four feet tall and that’s part of it. But I also have to bend for a million other things. To reach the bathroom sink, for instance. And straightening up is such an effort that I don’t always do it. I’ll be hunched over to wash my hands, and then I’ll spin to the towel in the same hunch to dry my hands. Let’s not even talk about the position I sit in all day at my desk. I need to start sitting on a ball or something. Chronic pain is new to me, and I don’t appreciate it. Must we all stoop all the time, or is it a personal problem?
When I wonder aloud “who bowls?” I hear from two separate sources (so it must be true): “the working class.” The working class I knew during my five year stint of not-so-hard labour in factories did not bowl, they drank. But I suppose there might be a drinking sector in the working class, and a bowling sector. Anyway, we have a bowling alley one block away from our house, and I finally succumbed to Eila’s pleas to check it out.
The bowling alley was clean. The score was kept automatically and appeared on a TV screen above our lane. The shoes were ludicrously comfortable. They put gutter-guards up (the four-year-old option) so that it was impossible to miss with one’s first bowl. The fries were yummy. The beer was cheap. And the place was chock full of families with young children. Sounds good? But this is not all! Saturday is “Cosmic Bowling” day. That means black light, a mirror ball, coloured lights flicking around the walls, and dance music pumping. I drank! She ate! We bowled! We danced! It was like going clubbing with my kid! Yay bowling!