I listen to a lot of sports radio because I know my prime days of athletic competition are over. I haven't played pick-up hoops in an age, and by the time my club softball games are over, I'm usually too buzzed to remember who won. I was never much of a jock; in high school I lettered in soccer, golf, and managing the baseball team, and since then there have been only a few situations when I could tax my body to the limit and take home a victory that leaves my muscles whimpering like lost bunnies.
About all I have left is registering my kid for an after-school swim class.
The process works a lot like the deli. You line up, first-come first-served, and they hand out numbers at 7am. The K-only swim class is very popular, because the teacher is lovely and skilled and can coax the most petrified aquaphobe into the pool. Last fall the class closed right before my eyes, and TwoBert (who recently decided he'd like to be called "Fireball" instead) was crestfallen. So when spring registration came around, it was time to tape my ankles and launch an "Eye Of The Tiger" workout montage.
I had it all planned out. I stayed over with a friend who lives six blocks from the school, and when I left Monday morning I smirked at the bitter predawn cold. I got my coffee, sauntered past all the cars parked at awkward angles on the rutted icephalt, and arrived at school at 6:45am to find ... no one.
Because registration wasn't until tomorrow.