Dear Future Leslee;
Just in case they’ve destroyed charities in the future and replaced them with blood sport (bludgeon your opponents to death for breast cancer!), let me tell you a little bit about Hope Volleyball: it’s a volleyball tournament, and you play in it, and they donate the money to pay/raise to charity. Relatively simple. But of course, it isn’t.
I managed to get to the beach on time despite staying out dancing till 2 a.m. the night before, and quickly located La Capitana, Debrawr. She had organized our entire team (Gooooooo Cookie Thrashers!!!) which is a good thing, because none of the rest of us could manage it. We lost four out of five games, but we did win one and I delivered the winning serve! Whoooo! Suddenly, team sports make sense to me.
As a child, I hated all team sports primarily because I was bad at sports and also anti-social, but I dressed up my repressed misanthropy as savvy individualism and pretending that I was just too good for all this bullshit. Needless to say, I was an unbearable child.
Throughout the day most of us ventured into the water, despite the no-swim advisory. The way I look at it, I can either absolutely get heat stroke or maybe get e. coli, so I’ll take my chances with the eerily fish-less river. The weather was gorgeous and so was the water, although the rest of the crowd were a mixed bag.
On our way to the bathroom from the river, a couple of dude-bros started cheering and asking Debrarw and I for high-fives. I complied, because why not? But then my high-fiver lightly low-fived my ass, and that was awkward. It was pretty unspectacular, and I was so confused that I didn’t even realize what happened until we were at the washrooms.
I wasn’t particularly upset or offended, although I should have been. I should have turned around and been like “Dude, not cool.” But the whole experience was so decidedly unsexual that it took me a minute to collect my thoughts, and by then the bro-dudes were lost in the crowd. You know in football, when the guys on the field pat each other on the ass? That’s what it felt like.
Part of it is also the fact that if I’d felt scared or threatened or uncomfortable, I could (and would) have made the whole thing a Very Big Deal, and knowing you have the power to make something a Very Big Deal is comforting. It makes me feel safe, even if it shouldn’t. In the future, I’ll be faster with my right hooks. Or left hooks. Well, I won’t necessarily know what hand I’m punching with, but I will be quicker on the up-take.
Also, having just gotten out of the lake my ass was no doubt a dripping bacteria farm, and part of me secretly hopes that after his enthusiastic butt-smack the bro-man-guy ate something and my ass gave him severe gastric illness.
Anyway, the moral of the story is that is you’re going to sexually harass someone, even if they don’t quite realize what’s going on, you deserve to have your drunken revellery ruined by dehydration and electrolyte imbalances.
After Hope I went and saw Beaki perform and Tuscons, which was awwwesome, and stayed up and danced till midnight despite mild heat stroke. Good times! Especially at the end, while we were leaving, and one of the women that had been on the dance floor near me stopped us.
“Okay, I just have to ask.” She began. “You two are sisters, right?”
Beaki and I laughed it off. Sisters? Pshaw! No, we’re just very good friends. She seemed to mull this over for a minute, and then:
“Well, you’re joggers, right?”
More awkward laughter. No, we’re not joggers. Just really good friends?
“Damn, I’m not getting anything right tonight!” She said.
“Let me guess,” I jumped in, pointing at her. “Libra!”
“Uh, no, Virgo.”
“There, now we’ve all gotten one wrong.”
And that was my Saturday. Awkward and wonderful, especially dancing with old people. Awesome!
Hope to see you on the beach next year! Please don’t touch my bum, or this time I will give you e. coli with my fists.