Yes. I played soccer on Monday. Uh, sort of.
I’ll have you know that at some point this month I was going to write a post titled “TEN YEARS, BABY!” with a big ol’ no-smoking sign in it, because it was sometime in May of 1997 that I quit smoking. I don’t know the exact date because I was trying not to think about smoking too much, and writing little monuments to My Last Cigarette would have defeated that purpose.
So I smoked for five years (well, five and a half). I quit ten years ago. My lungs should be more or less recovered, right? Well I ran, and I ran, and I ran until I thought my lungs would collapse, and by then I’d made it almost a quarter of the way around the pitch. We’re talking maybe 200 feet in all. Wuh? Tuh. Fuh? What was the frickin’ point of quitting if I wasn’t going to get a pair of working lungs out of the deal?
Also, “shooting,” i.e. kicking the ball in a specific direction, is harder than it looks. And, even though the goal is really big and the ball is really small, well… getting the ball into the goal is not one of my stronger skills.
Song du jour of the day: Superfreak, by Rick James. She’s a very kicky giiiiiiiirlllll… Haha!