Soccer Mom

As in, a mom who is playing soccer. For the first time ever.

I so misunderstood what I was doing when I begged my way onto a co-ed soccer team thinking only that I would guarantee myself a solid cardio workout at least once a week. I thought it would be fun. But this side of my first game, let's talk about what I was not thinking - I was not thinking about:

how disoriented I would feel running around on a field with only a small conception of position and rules of the game

how uncoordinated I would feel when I couldn't make my feet control the ball

how terrified I would be when I did have contact with the ball

how clueless I would be about what to do with the ball

how burdening I would feel to the rest of the team

There's no coach, no practice, no learning - there's just me running onto a field and trying. And when one of the friendly, encouraging girls on the team asked "Did you have fun?" at the end of the game, I realized during my hesitation and following dazed smile-and-nod that no, I absolutely did not have fun. I hate feeling foolish. I hate knowing I am absolutely the worst person on the field. I hate that people watched me fall down twice - once because I was running as fast as I could, and once because I couldn't stop running as fast as I could and I just plowed into the poor girl with the ball (foul). I hate that I didn't know where the stupid out-of-bounds line was and I stopped chasing the ball at some other line and the other girl scooped up the ball when I was actually beating her. I hate that I can't do this well. And I hate that I am a prideful woman who wants to be good at everything I do.

Well I fell. Literally.

I want to quit. I can list valid reasons why quitting is perfectly reasonable.

But there are little eyes watching me.

Sigh.

Now that you "listened" to my rant, you are rewarded with some live-action photos:

Just call me Kelé