Just a game

I was having a stressful afternoon yesterday and wondering if I would make it to the game at all, but my tennis coach got me half priced tickets to the Aces game last night, and I made it to Jeffrey's in time despite a stomachache and three forced detours. We walked over and found our seats- the best we've ever had- and shared a pretty good (and messy) burger. We caught up on each other's lives, laughed with the people sitting around us,  and cheered on the Aces and occasionally the other team when we weren't paying enough attention or when a member of the Baby Cakes had a particularly nice butt.
After playing a month of kickball, we were both newly impressed with the athletic skill on display. There were a couple home runs, but the throws! Oh, the throws. One guy threw this perfect low arc from the far outfield to home plate. The crowd roared, because how the hell...

"Why can't I throw like that, Jeffrey?"
"Because you aren't semi-pro."

Ah. Fair enough.

Even the foul balls were crazy good. I'd be super proud if I hit a foul ball 1/5 of that distance. In other words, they played baseball, but we enjoyed it more, imagining how much closer our bases are to each other and marveling that their hits to the back wall only result in a double. Sometimes ours do too, according to some rule the ump called out at our last game.

We lost that one too, but we are not nearly as bad as we all thought we'd be. We practice weekly, and I think we may win one by skill at least once this season. Jeffrey asked me last night if I was going to play softball. As much as I like the idea of it, the anxiety it gives me outweighs any fun. I played one whole season, so I'm good. I may play kickball again. Jeffrey felt the same way, so we may just be the resident peanut gallery of support for our favorite softball team. Start up a Wiffle ball game though, and I'm there.

As is May in Reno (or potentially anytime here, really), it got cold and windy when the sun went down. Colder than expected or planned for. We shivered through it, because neither of us was willing to leave. We stayed through the end of the game for the fireworks set off to a Katy Perry medley, then shivered over to Harrah's for hot chocolate (Jeffrey) and a London Fog hot tea for me. Somewhat warmed, we headed back to Jeffrey's, where he put some peanut butter on the most delicious bread, and after we talked a while, he played guitar and sang some songs he'd written and some he hadn't and a couple we both knew.

It was a really lovely night, and we agreed that while we'll remember that it was cold, we'll remember the fireworks more. It was a feast last night with the grilled onions and cheesy mustard of the burger, the green, brown and white on the field against the blue sky, chair dancing while being huddled together, craning up at the bangs and cracks of the orange, smoky, and curling fireworks, chewing on an open faced peanut butter sandwich and sipping what truly felt like London fog while absorbing the tones of an acoustic guitar- that is a sound that truly can't be replicated recorded. That night that was sewn into my memory.

At least one

I just got home from a date. It went very well- he was nice and carried on a good conversation, had a sense of humor and a very cute smile. It went on too long, but that's a good sign. I was thinking about about looking for love as a middle aged kook and my mind immediately rushed back to high school and reading Cynthia Rylant's A Couple of Kooks.

At 16, I only understood love as the Romeo and Juliet kind, but Cynthia Rylant wrote about quiet love that surprises more like a plant sprouting in the garden overnight than anything desperate and chaotic like earthquake shocks. Her characters knew they were too old or too young or too plain for love but it showed up anyway, somewhere in the everyday like at the drugstore, and she told their stories as if she was waiting in line that day and was just observant enough to notice it happening.

I remember reading these stories and thinking this was the only kind of love I ever wanted- warm and earnest and unexpected and imperfect, but as real and odd as shower caps or canned peas. I don't know if this guy is the right kind of kook for me, and there really isn't anything to do but to find out, but for the first time since I started dating, I feel like I'm finally starting to find some kooks.

Short update

I hate turning on my air conditioning because an indoor smoker lives downstairs. Any time I turn it on, it immediately reeks in here and gives me a headache. It makes me so mad. Even when I have moments of weakness, I smoke outside. Arrrgghh.

I am getting a new pump! Apparently I need the new one so I can get in line for the new new one, which will be able to incorporate the information from the sensor and if you go too high or too low, THE PUMP WILL AUTOMATICALLY ADJUST. It'll really be like an external, bionic pancreas! When the doctor asked the nurse to get me set up, she turned to me and asked, "Do you want the purple one again?" YES. Love this woman.

I hate the reading for my class. You would be amazed at how many white guys there are postulating about leadership. It's all basically saying the same thing, and I am frustrated by the content, how boring it is, and the fact that we're only assigned a few chapters from each, so I can't even count these towards my Goodreads challenge, which I am behind on.

I spent the weekend running around with friends, but kickball practice and a random trip to Tahoe and hosting dinner all got canceled today, so I dragged my ass up and cleaned and purged and organized. I got rid of a couple big items and one has already disappeared from the mailbox area. I still have to vacuum and read another two chapters of a hated book, but I'm hoping to also finish The Metamorphosis, which has the benefits of being interesting and short.

Tomorrow's kickball game is at 9:45. PM. Yes. Yeah.