zero to so-so

Roller derby, for me, has been as much about my psychological growth as physical.  I have spent so much time feeling out of place, out of shape, out classed and out ranked at derby that it's really a wonder that I'm still doing this.

For the first year of derby, every single practice felt like this.

Now only every second practice feels like that. 

Over my just about two years now in derby, my body has reshaped itself (without losing a single damn pound). My mind has also. I believe now that I am tougher, harder to please and less susceptible to cowardice. My language is rougher, my friendships more unpredictable and fun (with a higher tendency towards bruise inducing behaviors) and I actually touch people now. I didn't before, I had a serious aversion to contact. Especially hugs. Hugs made me gag. But now, these days, I sometimes hug people just to say 'Hi, it's nice to see you!' That is how much derby has changed me.


(I realise that that last confession just opened me up to a world of gratuitous hugging amongst those who claim to be my friends and teammates, but it's still better than the frenzy of ass-slapping I endured at tonight's practice. What is with these people?!)

I am still in a bit of awe at myself for sticking with this derby thing.  It must be a drug they put in the wrist guards because from the very beginning I've felt more vulnerable and filled with self-doubt than ever before in my life but I keep coming back for more.
My very first derby practice ever I fell down on my head and barrel rolled myself across the track so many times I was worried about driving home with my double vision.

My second practice we timed our twenty five in five and I achieved a whole eleven laps in five minutes of skating.  

My third practice I tore a ligament in the top of my foot trying to get up from a knee drop and had to rest it for a whole month.

I clearly wasn't made for this. 

It was a whole eight months before I was ready to benchmark.  Transitions took six months, crossovers three months, plows a whole seven months.  I do not have a blogging record on much of it because it was so painful to write about.  Not painful like my ass, thanks to tonight's bizarre gang-spanking, but painful to my ego and psyche.  I can sum it up for you, though: sweat, humiliation, and playing zombie sniper with those nagging self doubts.  Every time one of those little fuckers tried to work it's way into my brain BAM!  I knew if I let even one of them in, I'd be all over for me.

You know, it must be said, that benchmarking is not the achievement I thought it would be.  It was only the first step in many difficult steep steps.  My first post after benchmarking, I am clearly underwhelmed with myself.  I wish that this story right now would be ending with some triumphant, climatic crescendo, where I win over a serious lack of athleticism and self-doubt to become champion of all derby everywhere.

But, of course it doesn't.  I am quite firmly an intermediate level player.  I'm now just beginning to be comfortable enough on my skates to almost forget I'm wearing them sometimes.  I've achieved my mediocrity and brief hiatus from self consciousness by participating in five or six practices a week.

That seems like a lot, even to me, but it's what it's taking to move me up to so-so player level.

About now you are wondering why I am telling you this sad tale of lameness.  So am I actually.  I'm kind of bumming myself out.  But, oh yes, why I persist in something I am so bad at: I'm having just a shitload of fun.  I like being more fit.  I like pushing myself.  I love every tiny bit of confidence I've worked for on that track and absolutely cherish every knock down and jammer push out I do.  I like having started doing eleven laps in five minutes and working myself up to over thirty in the same time.  Working so hard for something makes the reward even sweeter.   

Which is why I believe that if you are feeling overwhelmed, fearful and unfit for derby, you should stick it out anyway.  You don't owe it to your coach or your friends or fellow freshies, but to yourself.  This is you growing muscles and attitude and nobody can do the work for you.  Relish the challenge.  It's what makes mediocre feel like winning a gold medal.

>:(

I have a bit of a cold. 

Hahahaha!  That was me trying out a bit of understatement and it kind of tickled.

I DO have a cold.  But it's more a possession by a demon called Cold.  It snuck in like a ghost blocker and felled me.  I'm haunted by Cccccoooolllldddd.  An evil Cold that sends chills and shivers up the spine while wracking my body with coughing spasms that bring up extremely unpleasant chunky fluids.

Frightfully malevolent, Cold has taken a life of it's own.  Cold has filled my sinus cavities up with an ectoplasmic substance that threatens to drown me and anyone unfortunate enough to be around with a shower of something obscene.

Cold has set up camp in my chest.  It's been a bit worrisome, what with gagging coughing that comes as Cold settles in, and the sharp pains I've assumed has been from tacking up its favorite Twilight posters to make the place more welcoming for its roommates Fever, Aches, and Addiction to Reality TV.

I've been really good while trying to oust Cold.  I've been drinking lots of hot drinks with mint, (almost) no alcohol, resting, small amounts of gentle exercise and the occasional fit of impotent rage to keep the blood flowing to my extremities.  According to Dr. Internet, I should wait another week before I go bother a real live doctor with my cough and yellow phlegm.  I am trying but I'm not really getting better.  And there is so much stuff to do that is piling up and has no sympathy for me and my battle with Cold.

Like playing derby. 

I did try the derby cure.  Well, a bit of cure and a bit of a test.  I needed to know I would be physically capable of playing this weekend in an invitational signed up for over a month ago.  I went to practice last night and did my best not to infect my teammates.  Getting out of the house and breathing in all the fresh arena air with it's invigorating dust and mold spores should be good for me, right?  I'm not totally nuts, there is some history here.  I have tried derby before to cure a head cold and have met with some, abet temporary, success.  I think scrimmaging, at the very least, proved to be a pretty good distraction to some sinus discomfort.

Last night, however, did not provide the same level of distraction.  I did do practice just fine, though there were some shaky moments during the endurance part of the evening, and other than adding a nose blow and a good cough to my itinerary whenever a water break was called, it really wasn't so bad.  I never felt good, but I didn't feel really bad either.  I was feeling like maybe I can do this!

The drive home, however, Not So Rockin'.  By the time I pulled in the driveway, Cold was sufficiently stocked for his counter assault on my lungs to leave me reeling.  I was quite the picture, trying to hang up my sweaty derby gear to dry while demonic tics worked their way through my body, snuffling and trying not to pull a Slimer all over my knee pads. 

And coughing!

No, better to try to forget the coughing.  Not pretty.

This morning, after vowing to quit smoking before I realized that I did 10 years ago, I decided to withdraw from this weekend's invitational.  Which I'm really sad about because I wanted to go push around some really awesome bitches.  I'll have to wait until the end of the month now to get 'em.

I also did a bit of looking around on the weird and wonderful Internet to try to ascertain whether or not one should exercise heavily while sick.  The general opinion of such prestigious sources such as The Mayo Clinic and all the other articles that quoted the Mayo Clinic, it is okay to exercise normally with a cold if your symptoms are above your shoulders.  If, however, you've got a chest congestion, best to just rest until you've recovered.

Bummer.

So, back with the mint tea and steamy showers and trying to loosen Cold out of my chest.  Which is too bad because while derby may not be the best thing for my body right now, it is the best for my head.  I miss skating and I miss the track and I even miss the dusty, moldy arena air.  A few days without a real practice and I start creating impromptu practices while going about my daily business.  Like positional blocking with carts at the grocery store (always a good one to enrage any irritating fellow customers) or using hip checks to open doors or move inopportunely positioned husbands in the kitchen.

Here is me looking at the bright side and trying not to sulk.  Next week, if I'm not better for league scrimmage, I can NSO, which would help me out for when I go to the OCDG's ref clinic in November.  And I can also put on a whistle for my team practice and call out penalties (that'll make me popular).  And when I am cut off in traffic and must cuss out another driver, I can call them a Fucking Demonic Cold and know that I've called them the nastiest thing there is. 

And I will remember that I've managed to get up so far every time someone, or something, has knocked me down.  That What Does Not Kill Me and such garbage.  Still, if anyone knows of a good exorcist, message me!

   

Insert ego-soothing title here

So, we lost our game last weekend CRDA's Cut Throat Car Hops.

We lost epically.

The final score was 121 to 120.  We lost by one point.

It was devastating.

I have been sitting here, pouting, trying to find some wisdom to share, or at the very least, a funny story.  But, honestly, I've got nothing.

The month before, we had our clocks cleaned by The Raggedy Rollers.  It wasn't so bad, actually.  I even wrote a post about it.  Quoth me: "I am such an excellent loser". 

Last month I had an excellent attitude.  This month?  Not so much.

One. fucking. point.  It makes me madder than a boiled owl.

I should be getting some perspective.  As a team, we played beautifully.  Our walls were, at some points, objects of art.  My girl Cakes and I were joking that we should get tee shirts made with the word 'Front' printed on her back and 'Wall' printed on mine.  I got to experience the sublime moment of holding off a jammer so long that she finally flapped her arms in frustration and called off the jam.

I like forcing jammers to chicken dance.

Also, the team we played has been around for a couple of years while us, a mere six months.  This was our fourth game.  We are just now beginning to understand the idea of teamwork and how it applies to those weirdos in the same colour jersey.  I think, with time, we will be formidable. 

But one goddamn point!

I don't think the other team knew how much danger they were in when they came by to shake my hand and hug me.  Hugging?  Really?  All the self control that I have developed over six years of parenting suddenly came extremely relevant as I struggled not to give them a little extra bone-jarring jerk in my handshake or accidentally bump my helmet a bit too hard on their face.

Did I just confess to that?

Don't worry, I just smiled and hugged, even though it nearly killed me.  Don't worry, smiling and hugging nearly kills me in civilian life too.  I'm just not cuddly.  And  I would never grievously harm another player off the track.  I don't even like hurting people on the track.  I am a nice fucking person, goddamnit!

I am also a believer that if you start with the actions, the conviction will eventually follow.  (No, no, conviction as in belief, not as in jail time.  Geez, you really think badly of me.)  Fake it until you make it.  If you could see me now, you could see my smile (not somewhat plastic-y) and watch me blow kisses (not in a vaguely sarcastic manner) at the general direction of the other team's hometown.  Chant with me: I am a good sport.  I am a good sport. 

I am a good sport, damnit.

Because I am a good sport with access to the Internet, I did do a bit of looking around to see how other people believe we should behave after losing the game.  Even if it's only by one point.  This article was my favorite, on a site ironically dedicated to Being A Man.  Though I fail the dangle test, I thought there was some good information in there for us all.

As for processing post game feelings of rage, injustice and failure, well, I'm taking a three prong therapy.  The first is going to practice and working my ass off to get better for the next game, because I'm pretty sure a win would help with the sour taste in my mouth. 

The middle prong is chocolate.

The final is picking up on the heart of my team, and listening when they tell me to get over myself.  The lovely ladies who all stood up and chanted, 'We're number two!  We're number two!'  Moping about this loss (one point!) takes away all the sweat, blood, and bruises we acquired while earning 120 other points.  The effective walls, the excellent jammer killing, the unsurpassed teamwork.  The same ladies who, when we realized no post-bout group shot was forth coming, insisted somebody get a fucking camera and take a picture of us.   

Because we are awesome.

RDRDA's Nightshades July 23, 2011 by Papa Razzo

celebrating (almost could be if I work hard enough) mediocrity

I've been told several times recently that I should blog more about roller derby.  I agree.  I have been breaking blogging rules by posting infrequently and randomly, plus I like to put in annoying variations in font size and rarely have pictures.  All good things to do if you don't want people to read what you write.

Yet, here you both are!

For either one of my two readers here who do not know, I do have another blog in which I follow the rules of blogging and it has a few more readers.  Like eight or so.  You should know, before you wander over, I hardly ever use the word fuck, never douchebag, and mainly talk about my kids a lot.  Roller derby consists of about .02% of content. 

Yet derby takes up about 56% of my waking life time and 88% of my brain space.  A slight discrepancy in writing time given over to one blog versus the other, if you want to consider life energy given to each pursuit, but I do find it is easier to write about sewing, crafting and raising my kids because I am actually pretty good at that stuff, while derby, well, not so much.

It kills me to not be good at something.  I am the person who usually asks questions only if I already know the answers.  I never guess at things.  When I did not instantly rock the guitar, tumble gracefully in gymnastics, hit the fucking ball in baseball or keep my head above water in swimming, I quit rather than humiliate myself.  

As an adult I've learnt a bit of perseverance, it's true, but still, eventual mastery of a particular skill is always my goal.  If I will never be great at something, then why stay with it when there is so many other things to be doing?  So many other things I can be great at?

Roller derby has thrown a bit of wrench in my easy route/slacker routine.  See, I already know I will never be great at roller derby.  It's been a year and a half now and not only have I failed to achieve superstardom, but I haven't really reached mediocrity.  And I know that if I work hard, skate every day, cross train, eat, sleep and breath derby I will never achieve the fluidity, bad assitude and juky-ness I see comes naturally to other players.  I can, perhaps, be good.  But not Awesome.

And that's okay.

No really: OK.

For some reason, despite my absolute shame at making mistakes and the emotional suffering I go through whenever I appear foolish in public, put me in a pair of fishnets and lyrca skirt and suddenly I don't give a shit.  Knock me on my ass, my face, make me trip over my skates and do a funky chicken while I crash into the boards and I'll be back for more as soon as I can pick my fat ass up off the floor.  I'm pretty sure I look like a fool and a lunatic, I mean if you are going to play a ridiculous kitschy contact sport on bloody roller skates, for heaven's sake, you'd best be at least good at it. 

But I'm not.  Have I mentioned I'm okay with that?

I wish at this point I could enlighten you about what makes roller derby so special to actual locate itself outside of the realm of my usual neurosis.  I have no insight there as of yet.  Derby, in fact, isn't entirely untouched by my self-loathing since I still can not watch video of myself skating and nearly always refuse to view photos of myself playing, but while I'm on skates (in fishnets and lyrca), no matter how I appear to others, I feel pretty good.  Even as my head is bouncing off the floor.

Normally I hate perspiring in public but I really like skating.  Normally I hate sports but I really like playing derby.  Normally I hate appearing anything less than perfectly together and, horribly, I don't mind getting knocked on my ass.  Normally I see most people as being surrounded by an extra large bubble and apologise profusely if someone else bumps into me on the bus but I like knocking bitches on skates over.  Normally I'd never use the word bitch.  It's all a big a big bundle of dysfunction and odd and it's all happening on roller skates.

Pretty funny, right?

One day maybe my daytime identity's self consciousness will catch up to my derby persona, but in the meanwhile, with this lag in feeling like a loser and mortification with appearing foolish, I can enjoy doing something that I am not very good at yet can still live it. 

As lame as I am, the hits I take are real and, yeppers, I truly am bouncing off the concrete and when I manage to push someone out, block the jammer for half the track or knock someone else, for a goddamn change, on their ass, I know that it is extraordinary, for me, and I relish it all the more.

Or maybe it's just all the hits to the head talking.

Yours, in derby (badly),
Unchained Malady        

the long post

I am supposed to be writing a serious discussion of skate maintenance for my league's soon to be released blog.  It will be brilliant.  Or at least informative.  Or at least readable in a way that doesn't make people vomit into their gear bags. 

My goals, as the person chosen because of a random team building exercise confession concurrently happening with an internet make over coupled with my inability to resist spreading myself too thin, are simple.  I would like our league's blog to be positive, technically informative, helpful, and serious.

Oops, just tripped myself on the last one.
I'm not a terribly serious person.  Okay, actually, I am, but I still joke a lot and see whether or not I come off as funny or annoying to other people is merely splitting hairs because I think I'm funny as hell.  I can't help but make the little wise cracks and asides.  I even joke while playing and am immensely proud of the fact that despite my relative lack of ass kicking in my first bout ever, I did manage to make the whole pack laugh at one point during a jam.

But, I have this vague idea that not everyone thinks I'm as hilarious as I find myself.  It's the all too frequent blank stare I get when I slip a little irony into a conversation, or the pause before the polite little titter that gives this slightly discordant feeling like I'm a bit of an asshole sometimes. 

I can live with that.

However, having been honoured with the task of organizing the league's blog, I would like to do a Good Job and not make the rest of my league look like assholes by writing like one.  You know, like I do here. 

For the league blog, then, no jokes.  Or not a lot of jokes. No alots anyway.  (That was a joke.  See what I mean?)  And, for fuck sake, I really shouldn't be talking about how I zone out during pace lines or my humorous appreciation of the fine agony of giner shiners (when they happen to other people anyway). 

At least, I'm going to try to avoid admitting what idiot I can be at this whole derby thing.

These are my rules.

So, the first post is some information on skate maintenance.  Properly caring for your second most important piece of equipment (the most important is either your head or your ass, depending on which one works better on the track or both if they happen to be in close proximity) is extremely important.  Especially since playing derby can run up your credit card mighty high, most of us at some point develop a boot or wheel fetish, and there is no sense in throwing away your money having to replace what could easily be still working well with only a little bit of effort.

This is me reasonably understanding what should be done.

Sadly, despite my almost supernatural powers of cognitive reasoning, I am not a shining example of skate maintenance.  Viewed from the outside, one might surmise that I actually hate my skates and am attempting, through neglect, to do away with them.
At one point a month or so ago I thought that my basic skills were being sucked into a vortex created as penance for not working out enough.  I lost the ability to do a knee drop.  Rather, I lost the ability to get back up after  the drop.  Which was a bummer since I had worked so hard at dropping and touching one knee to the ground and pushing myself back up without stopping, having to retrain myself after initially being taught to drop, stop, and wait for applause.  I'd be doing a little warm up practice with my new league, trying to show that I belonged with the big girls and please don't send me back to fresh meat practice and suddenly I'd be skidding around on the floor, completely defeated by a knee drop.

Awkward.

Then my plows started to be less plow and more double wide trailer.  When I'd try to push someone my legs would shoot out sideways.  Eventually, I could barely cross over without almost falling over on my hip.  Sssshhhhhhhhiiiiiiiiittttttttttttttttttttttttt was the sound my accomplishments rapidly being drained from my body and sucked down a black hole of gym slackers.  My skills were leaving me!  I was convinced that it was because I ate too many cookies and didn't take up running like I said I would.  Same reason why I got zits in high school.

Turns out, after being clued in one evening when I tried to t-stop and my wheels were hopping around like a frog on a hot plate, that something wasn't quite right with my trucks.  Not right as in the damn things had just about unscrewed themselves loose from my skate and were threatening to leave me entirely if I didn't start paying a little attention to them.

A few moments with a handy dandy screw driver and suddenly my skills were spit right back out of the vortex and hip hip hooray, I can skate again!

Wow.  What a relief to know that it wasn't my lazy not-working-hard-enough ass to blame, it was my lazy not-treating-my-skates-right ass that was a problem.

Should of learned something from that experience, yes?

Well, obviously if I did, there wouldn't be more to read here, so let's go on with the tale my shameful lack of skate care.

My wheels have been squeaking and grinding a bit for, oh, a month.  Or two.  Awhile.  At first I thought the problem might go away if I just ignored it (I tried this tactic with both automotive oil changes and pregnancies with little success - I think we've established that I am a slow learner), but eventually the noise was getting alarming enough that it began to seep into my consciousness that I should probably do something about it.  The point where I could not longer put it off came when Gunpowder Gertie, a wise and most excellent skater, mentioned that because of my grody bearings I was working much harder than her just to skate.  I seriously did not need that, having enough mountains to climb without throwing in badly functioning skates.  Why make this harder on myself?

Thus, I did, finally, clean my bearings and wheels, checked out my bushings (yes, they exist!) and so forth, and though they still don't sound like well oiled machine (despite the speed cream) I will know for sure if they truly roll easier at my next practice.  I had them out right after I cleaned them for a scrimmage up at Oil City, but I was way too busy getting my ass handed to me to notice how well my bearings were doing.

The whole point of these abysmal stories is that I am terribly concerned that my shoddy example will somehow reflect badly upon my league mates, and that I need to somehow step two steps back from myself in order to do a Good Job.  Put on my reporter's helmet cover, so to speak (it will have holders for a notepad, pencil and mickey of gin), and pretend that I actually know stuff about stuff.

Of course, my megaflaw, honesty, will probably rear its ugly head and I will have to confess my shame.  Do you think the Do As I Say Not As I Do argument will hold water here?  I hope that my own dirty example won't be generalized amongst my league and smear their reputations.  People all over the derbyverse will be all, "Oh, Red Deer, they don't take care of their skates!" 

"Oh! My! God!"

Or maybe I overestimate my own importance.  (Of course I do, I blog, don't I?)

Thank you all for staying with me through this long post of self doubt and sad stories of skatey lameness.  Next post I will hopefully be a little less mentally debilitated.  Perhaps we'll get lucky and someone will hurt themselves in a highly amusing way.  Here's hoping!

(That was a joke too.  Nobody gets me!)

Hi ho, hi ho, off to the gym I go

I think I've mentioned this before, but since it has been weighing on my mind lately, I think I'll say it again: I am not an athletic sort of individual.

My body is designed for long days spent in pajamas, curled on a bed with a laptop perched across my ample thighs.  My belly, where I store my extra fat and love, is a perfect pillow for the heads of my children or any wayward cat that needs a warm place for a quick nap.  I don't move quickly.  In fact, since my children are now old enough to fetch, it's possible, though ethically questionable, for me to not move at all.

Getting up and throwing myself around vigorously everyday ruins it for everyone.  My pajamas become lonely, and wonder what's so great about leaving the house anyway?  My kids want to know why I can't stay still long enough for them to crawl all over me and what's up with the sweat?  Why the heck do you shower so much lately?  A question usually reserved for teenage boys.

The last couple of months I have been picking up the pace fitness-wise.  I now have a gym membership and am familiar enough face to the front desk people that they ask about my kids.  My 'clothes to sweat in', between derby and gym time, has taken over my wardrobe.  I am familiar with my resting heart rate and my desired heart rate for a decent cardiovascular workout.  I cross train.  I circuit train.  I combine cardio and resistance training.  Just knowing all these phrases and how to apply them should get me a free two inch butt lift, don't you think?

I get myself into a healthy, sweaty lather - the unfun way - at least six days a week now. 

It would be nice to say that this has given me a trimmer body and more energy, but in general I am still the same basic potatoe shape as always, moving at a slightly brisker pace than slug amputee.  If becoming vegan didn't do it, passing time watching boxing while running on a treadmill isn't going it cut it either.  Now in my mid-thirties, it would take nothing less than three boot camp drill sergeants, a team of liposuction surgeons, and a truck full of Spanx to alter this body.  Looking at the women in my family, I think it would be fairly safe to say that I would be the same shape no matter if I spent my days training for a triathlon or eating chocolate covered bon-bons and drinking Pilsner.  My ancestors bred for generous pockets of fat, better to survive the cold and seasonal famines.  I move slowly, better to conserve precious calories, and the mere idea of skipping the bread course is enough of a shock to my system to make it store even more calories in anticipation of the Great Sweet Roll Shortage. 

Look at me, pinnacle of evolution.  Now where are my bon-bons and pajamas?

However.  As nice at it would be to shut myself inside all day, eating and getting drunk, I do value my health, blah blah etc, and at night I do venture forth to do a little think called roller derby.  Perhaps you've heard of it?

That's the kicker.  I must get better at derby.  This sport is too dangerous for half assedness.  And the potential for embarrassment is high.  If I was a natural athlete, I could, in fact, live a nice, indulgent lifestyle, and still knock bitches around, making it look as easy as taking a stroll to the mailbox.  I know several people who are of that type and I resent the hell right out of them. 

But, given my body, personal history, and penchant for dark chocolate, peanut butter, and red wine, I have to work pretty damn hard to gain even the smallest improvement in agility or speed.  It takes a lot of effort just to lift this body up and down stairs with a basket of laundry, never mind chugging on the stair climber for forty minutes.  It is difficult to continue to motivate myself to eat less, drink less, and exercise everyday when there seems to be little payoff.  Am I whining?  Definitely.   

Still, I continue.  My one true skill, as far as I can tell, is this streak of belligerence in me that kicks up wherever I think I may be defeated.  I might not win, I probably don't stand a chance, but I haven't given up yet.  My motivation is to inch up my skills to a place where I have a plausible shot at laying out one of those naturally athletic bitches.  Get my revenge on the track.   And if that day never comes to pass, well, I suppose I can always wait in a dark alley with a bottle of merlot and a ten pound block of fudge and seriously mess with her mesomorph ass.   

Just thinking out loud.

foot in it

Whatever else you can say about my derby skill development, one thing for certain is that I have become much, much stronger since I started skating.  Prior to skating, my legs sort of resembled a doughy, potato type food product.  Picture perogies or gnocchi.   My legs are now full of strappy, tough bands of muscle. I even have this unlady-like thick muscle running up my shin, almost obscuring my tibia when flexed.  I never even knew of it's existence until a few months ago.

I can kick like a mule.

Which is why I now need to find another way of venting when I get frustrated.

Maybe I can go shopping for nicer shoes?

test anxiety stream of consciousness

Hwarkk!  Ack!  Kwwickuw!  Ptooie!


Drip drip drip... Hwsuuuckkca!  Drip drip drip... Hwsuuuckkca! 

Whine whine cry dribble sleep cry whine whine.

These are the lovely sounds of my little family being completely disgusting with their summer colds.  I love them, but if I didn't, I would cross the street to avoid them and their rampant pestilence.  Other than sleep walking around with a feeling of having my bone marrow replaced with lead, I've thus far managed to avoid getting the chills, fever, mucus rivers, sinus congestion, whiny.

Okay, maybe I got a bit of the whiny.

I am doing my best with the vitamin C and Wally's 'It isn't repulsive' Hut (red wine is very good for you, don't you know?), and have even contemplated taking an iron pill or two (a reflexive reaction to exhaustion after birth and nursing a couple of babies).  Generally I don't like getting sick, and this week the stakes are even higher: this Thursday is my basic skills test.  

I hate tests.  Really.  I get anxiety.  No: Anxiety.  I don't think well under pressure and, even when writing exams in university which I was actually pretty good at, my body feels like it's under the control of a drunken speedwalker.  I'm likely to suddenly careen full speed into a wall or propel myself down the stairs, missing every step but the last one, which I hit with my butt. 

I feel so sick just thinking about it that I just spilt my wine on my laptop.  I hope the antioxidants in red wine means it won't fry my circuits.

Or maybe that's the problem in the first place?

Whatever.  Where was I?  Oh, yes, tummy churning, palm sweating, teeth aching test anxiety.  It really does not make me feel any better to know that I will be on wheels too.  What the fuck am I thinking?

Actually, I have actually taken the WFTDA assessments before, but I sucked enough to know that I had no actual chance of passing.  This was back in May, only a few practices into my time with OCDG, and taking the test was more like being a tourist than a contender.  I was thinking, 'Oh, how interesting, I'm going to get hit now by that All Star rollergirl - okay!  Ouf, that hurt!  Hey, I'm still standing!  Go Me!  I wondering if I'm supposed to do something else?'

Yes, by the way, I was supposed to do something else: HIT HER BACK!

I hope I at least can figure out what I'm supposed to do this time.  No, wait, this time I want to make this test my bitch.  But I will settle, at this point, to just not being horking up phlegm.

The worst part is, I may stand a chance of passing.  And then what?  I will play roller derby?  For real?  With the big girls?   

Oi.  

I think this is a bad idea in many different ways.

 I have just started Melissa 'Melicious' Joulwan's book Rollergirl: Totally True Tales from the Track and she's just walking through her first experience with watching derby.  Hopefully she'll also give me a play by play of the learning and breaking her derby cherry.  I could use a success story or two right now.  Or maybe I can start working my way through the Rocky movies, to psyche myself up.  I figure anxiety and fear is a head trip, then the medicine must be something I put into my head also.

Anyone know of any roller derby affirmation tapes I could play as I sleep?

"You are a strong, relentless bitch.  You hit like a freight train.  Your crossovers are immaculate.  You are not getting a sinus cold."

This all makes me wonder why I bother to protect my brain with a helmet.  


Off to take my medicine.  *gulg, gulg*  Here's to vitamin C, good sleeps, and the ability to channel my anxiety into aggression.


I love this derby thing.