I’ve decided the world is a highly ironic place.
At least my world is a highly ironic place.
In my walking form, I was one of those tall lanky ladies that you see and instantly assume plays sports. Yet, if you got to know me you would realize I was just 6 feet of awkward with no idea where in the world one of my limbs ended and the next one started. Sure, I played basketball in middle school but I spent most of my court time literally on the floor–I’ve always been pretty scrappy (I think that has something to do with my middle child syndrome). I also somehow managed to miss getting the “I’m-really-good-at-volleyball” gene that I swear every female (but me) gets. My role in volleyball games in gym class was like a strange form of a volleyball lightning rod. I’m pretty sure no matter where I was, I’d get smacked in the head by that stupid ball. In summary: Walking Sam = not sporty.
That seems to understate things, walking Sam = not sporty at all.
I still don’t think that’s quite right. Walking Sam = less than not sporty at all.
Yea, I think that’s about as good as it’s gonna get but I hope you get my point. Balls, bats, athletics are basically not my cup of tea. I mean I got into running in college as a stress reliever from all of my nerd classes and the fact there were not balls or bats required (or even found anywhere in the vicinity). I’m a bit on the anti-getting-hit-in-the-head-with-stuff bandwagon, I think middle school gym class traumatized me…
Yet here I sit, quote unquote disabled, having returned from my second year at a National Wheelchair Sports Camp. I wrote about my first year here, so if you want to “flashback friday” or whatever the cool kids are calling it, check the link out!
Excuse me for a second while I muse at the irony of the above situation.
Wheelchair. Handicapped. Disabled. National Sports Camp.
Which of these is not like the other?