I Beat the Stomach...Again

I finally did it...for the second time in my entire life, I jammed. I beat The Stomach.

For anyone who doesn't know what being a jammer entails (like Bone Senior, who doesn't know why her trunk-less Scion doesn't have a safety-release latch on the back door. Here's a hint, sister: if you get stuck in the "trunk" of your Scion, there's no need to kick out the tail lights, just climb over the back seats.) The easiest way to explain the role of the jammer is that she's the only one on the team who can score points, by passing members of the opposite team. Which means that while the blockers (me) can sometimes mosey along in a pack, the jammer is skating as fast as she can to get back around the track and through the pack as many times as possible.

So, blocker = big butt (sometimes moseying) in your face; jammer = skate like hell, get through the pack, get back around the track, get through the pack again, all while getting knocked down by blockers. Rinse and repeat for two minutes. Then apply oxygen mask.

I think it goes without saying that I don't jam. I avoid it like the plague, which makes me feel like crap when we're short on skaters and the same three girls are jamming over and over, and they desperately look around for someone, anyone to volunteer to jam...and I totally avoid eye contact with them, I skate away from them when they're trying to hand off the jammer panty, and I flat out jump out of the way if they throw the panty anywhere near me. Then things get really uncomfortable, because I stand there, trying to pretend that the panty isn't draped across my foot, or under my skate, and everyone stares at me expectantly, and I just wait until someone braver than me picks it up and has the guts to jam.

But two months ago when I made the commitment to work harder, I set a goal to at least try jamming. And in those two months, there have been countless opportunities for me to try, but I was still too scared. I told myself I was still too slow, I still don't have the stamina, my arms are still too flabby; but really, I didn't want to get out there and let everyone down. I'd made up my mind that I just wasn't cut out to be a jammer. Even though just about every skater on the team has done it, I decided that I have a wide butt for a reason, and blocking was all I would use it for.

Because I had opened my big mouth about my high-falootin' derby goals, my teammates and coaches all knew that I wanted to jam, they all encouraged me, they were all rooting for me - but I was terrified that I'd get out there and fail. And then I'd be mortified in front of everyone, and I'd have to admit that I'm just not meant to be a jammer, and I'd have to stick my big butt back on the inside line where it belongs, defeated.

At last week's scrimmage, I decided enough was enough, and made up my mind to jam. Really, it was all my decision. It had nothing to do with the fact that we'd lost three players to injury in the first half, and there were only three girls rotating through the jammer position - they looked like they were about to keel over from exhaustion, one of them was still recovering from a concussion, and the other had just slammed her head into the wall. I totally wasn't guilted into it. At all.

So, I manned up and jammed.

Up until now, I'd only jammed once. I don't really remember it (because it was so long ago) but I'm sure it was like a train wreck - a really, really slow, panting, red-faced, can't-even-catch-up-to-the-pack-let-alone-get-through-the pack, dry heaving train wreck; after which I probably collapsed on the bench and hung my head in shame.

This time, however, when I finished the jam, I felt exactly like this:
And yes, I absolutely made that face.

It was the most exhilarating feeling of my life. Or at least the most exhilarating feeling since I did my 25 laps in under five minutes. Definitely one of the top three exhilarating moments of the last year. When the jam started and people noticed that, what the hell, Bone is jamming?!? I could hear everyone screaming for me - I honestly thought Wicked and Liz were going to lose their voices. My blockers kept a slow pace, they knocked everyone out of the way for me, they made it so that not only did I get through the pack, but I actually scored points.

When it was over, I threw my arms in the air and let my arm fat flutter in the wind as I skated back to my bench. My face hurt from smiling, my lungs were on fire, and I wanted to cry because of the overwhelming support and encouragement I got from the Rockettes. Even if they were hugging me and patting my butt out of pure pity because of my noble effort, it didn't matter. Because right then, I had conquered another one of my fears, and for two minutes? I made jamming my bitch.

Now if only I could conquer my fear of Wanton Rebellion...

Have You Been Boned This Week? Cause You're About To...

I am so flattered, humbled, and honored to have been nominated for this week's Derby Girl of the Week. Thank you thank you THANK YOU so much for all the incredible support from my fellow Rockettes, it brought me to happy tears.

Now check me out in all my awesomeness.

http://nowsaltlake.com/articles/view/2217/?page=1

I Beat the Stomach

A Summary of July:

Derby, endurance, sweating, more sweating, sweating so much that my entire ponytail was soaking wet (swonytail), bunionettes, ice packs tied to my feet, camping, being tricked into a hike and not realizing I'd been tricked until it was too late, eating like fifty s'mores in one night, making derby shirts, trying to figure out how to power wash the bed of a pickup truck without getting sprayed with poopy smelling water, realizing that there is no way to power wash the bed of a pickup truck without getting sprayed by poopy smelling water, my boobs turned three, and what else...I really feel like I'm forgetting something here....oh yeah, and I got stood up.

Are you as shocked as I am? Because I had no idea bunionettes were a real thing either! Who knew! To clarify, bunion is on the inside of the foot, below the big toe; and a bunionette (much cuter) is on the outside of the foot, below the pinky toe. It might sound cuter, but trust me, my feet are a hot mess to look at. Hence the ice packs tied to my feet.

Enough about my bunionettes - I know what you're dying to hear about. I didn't even want to post about getting stood up because I felt so humiliated at first - but now that some time has passed, I'm over being humiliated and I'm just pissed, so my blog gets to benefit from that. And as a disclaimer: I am not writing about this to gain sympathy or pity or a bunch of comments about what a douche the guy is. Even though he is. I'm writing about it because I've learned that if I can't see the humor in a situation, I usually don't learn anything from it. And now I get to pass on those pearls of wisdom.

So this is my story about The Time I Got Stood Up. First of all, I don't think I even know anyone in real life who has actually been stood up. Because, who does that? Second of all, it's not like I was set up on a blind date, I went to meet him at a restaurant, I was sitting there with a red rose on the table, and he took one look at me and bailed without even saying hello. It wasn't like that at all. This was a guy I had been set up with, we spent the afternoon boating with two of our friends, then after boating he asked if we wanted to go get dinner and play cards. We all decided to go home and get cleaned up, then meet up again in about an hour at my place.

So I go home and shower and get ready. I even blow dried my hair. Then I waited. And waited. And waited. After almost two hours of waiting, I texted the guy and told him I was ready whenever he was. No response. Another hour goes by, I texted him again, asking for an ETA. No response. After another thirty minutes, I called. No answer.

He didn't even have the decency to bail on me in private - my friend was waiting on us, so I had to keep texting her and telling her that I still hadn't heard from him. Basically, we spent an afternoon together, he asked to continue hanging out, he put it out there, and then he just disappeared. I don't get it.

Here's what sucks - if he didn't want to hang out with me again, he could've just called it a day after boating, and it would've been fine. But to make further plans with me and then not show up? Why even extend the invitation? Oh, and it's been over a week, and I still haven't heard a peep from him. And before you go giving him the benefit of the doubt - no, he didn't get arrested or hospitalized. Because I checked.

As far as I'm concerned, the only acceptable excuse for standing me up is if you're dead. Believe me, I went through all the possible scenarios - maybe he fell asleep? Maybe his phone died? Maybe his car wouldn't start? If something like that happened, you'd think he'd have the courtesy to text me the next day and explain, or something. But no, this guy has just bailed, no explanation or apology. End of story.

Except that might not be the end of the story, because if I ever see that guy again, I'm going to get so ghetto on him, he's going to wish death was his excuse for standing me up. I am so not above bobbing my head, raising my voice, and shaking my finger in his face. My wrath supercedes all social graces.

So I spent a few days moping and feeling sorry for myself, feeling like I must be the biggest loser if a guy thought it was okay to treat me that way. Then it clicked in my head that he's the douche. And then I got angry. Like, really angry. Derby couldn't have come at a more perfect time, because I needed a healthy outlet for my rage, otherwise I was afraid I'd go all Bobbitt or something.

We started out by getting timed doing 25 laps. Perfect. I kept my head down, puffed my cheeks out, and skated as hard as I could to release my angry tension. And guess what happened?

I did my 25 laps in under five minutes. I came in at 4:53. Fink beat The Stomach.

Which means that I shaved 47 seconds off my first time, in only three and a half weeks. Three and a half weeks!!! I thought it was going to take me six months to close the gap, but I did it. I did it. And then I didn't even feel angry anymore.

So maybe I should be thanking El Douche - if he hadn't stood me up, I wouldn't have gotten pissed, my anger wouldn't have simmered and built up to almost uncontrollable rage, and I wouldn't have pushed myself so hard on those laps. Maybe I wouldn't have reached my goal. Maybe I owe him gratidude.

But instead of thanking him, I'd still rather donkey punch him.