Wine, a bath, ice pack, and Aleve

What is: all the things that April ran home to do following dodgeball tonight, Alex.

I'm having so much god damn fun playing this ridiculous sport, it's not even funny.  I have a bruise on my right calf from last week that looks like a cow kicked me.  I gave it to myself.  You think that gravity and momentum would work in your favor when jumping to actually dodge a ball.  But flesh must adhere to a different set of rules because half of me went one way, one boob went another, and my right butt cheek, yet a third.  The result was me kicking myself in the calf.  Brilliant.

My left knee is fucked.  Okay, not fucked, but it's not right.  Apparently using it as my planting leg when I throw and pushing all, uh, 110? pounds of me onto that joint has led to some resistance.  The backlash has been epic.  And requires lots of Aleve and frequent icings.

My Norwegianly subtle challenged mother showed her support by rambling on about the wonders and joys of my decision to do yoga.  Because THAT'S what my body needs.  And reminding me of how competitive I am.  Read: April, you're gonna kill yourself with this dodgeball thing.  Take your old ass home and throw in a Diana Ross Does Yoga at the Met video.  But until I can throw hard little rubber balls at the instructor while Yoga'ing it up, I'm gonna stay with this gladiator like sport for lesbians, soft ball players,  and washed up athletes.  Or any combination of the above.

I think that we have next week off, thank the gods.  But our next step is to traumatize the girls by bringing them to watch mom get killed.