The door bell rang and I shook off the vacant expression on my face. I got out of my chair and tried to compose myself before I answered the door.
My bother and I were just in a heated discussion about country music. Lately, he has fallen victim to the brass guitar and deep drawl "charm". He has taken it upon himself to convert us 'music haters' to the likes of Tim McGraw and Carrie Underwood. With in a fifteen minute conversation I was referred to as close-minded, prejudiced, disrespectful, anti-patriotic, a hypocrite, ignorant, and stubborn.
It isn't as if I can't appreciate country music as a legitimate music genre. Country artists can be great musicians, many can sing well, many can play multiple instruments. The lyrics can be adorable and promote values like patriotism, family, hard work, and true grit. I can appreciate that. But there is, just like any genre, poopy songs with skanky lyrics that would make a grown man blush. I feel just fine with preferring not to listen to that particular music. John, I will stick to my music, you can keep the country.
Flustered over the heated exchanges with my brother, I fluff my hair, pinch my cheeks and carefully place a smile on my face.
"Hi, Carlos!" My smile freezes as I bring my voice down to a more convincing decibel.
"Hi. Your house is amazing." states Carlos.
I sigh and quickly usher him in give him a quick tour and usher him out. All the while John was in the kitchen snickering because he knew the state of my emotions better than Carlos.
He opens the car door for me (I actually waited for him to yell 'contact!' [insert explanation here]) we pull out of the drive way and the conversation flows nicely.
I interrupt this this blog post for breaking news:
My step grandpa just tired to set me up with his grandson. "He needs a wife just like you." I told him I don't think any one could handle being married to me. "why? Are you too high maintainence?" chuckles grandpa. I said, No, I'm just really self-centered. He coughs, "Oh, well I guess you still have a few years."
We now return you to your regularly scheduled blog post.
Carlos tells me that we are going to be meeting up with Richard and Tracy and going to the batting cages. I played softball for the young women's team when I was twelve. I was mediocre at best, I haven't played since. This last summer I went to a singles ward softball tournament, had my friend Allyson teach me how to throw again. I held my own pretty good outfield, but then I went up to bat. I hit only one ball all night and it ricocheted off the bat and clocked me in the chin. A softball to the face can really do a number on your self esteem.
As we pulled in, I recounted my experience, or lack thereof, with batting. He brushes me off and tells me I'll do fine. He hands me the shortest bat there and takes me to the cage labeled 'slow pitch softball'. I grit my teeth and stuff my head into the moth-eaten foam lining of the helmet and enter the cage.
I let the first pitch past me, to get a feel for the speed. By the fourth, I feel like I was ready climb down from the chain link and take a swing. First swing, nothing. Second swing, WACK! Heavens to Betsy, I hit one! I squeek with glee and square up for the next pitch. POP! Two in a row? This is too good. By the end of the outing I had out hit my date.
I didn't know I had it in me. I was like some batting prodigy. What if I had started out young? I could have been hitting the big time (pun intended). This could have been my destiny! ...Nah...I don't think I would have liked it as much. I don't think I would change my experiences for anything. Even for the chance at the big time.