Not Clown Sex

At some point after University I took a weekend workshop on how to write a romance novel. I had never read a romance novel, and frankly had no interest in it, other than the part I had heard about how you could make $30,000 if you wrote one that was published. How hard could it be? I liked to write. I needed $30,000. But after the course itself, I came out knowing there was no way I could do it. You have to like those kinds of books to write them. Plus, so many rules: the fated couple have to meet by page 6 and they have to kiss by page 40. And there were a whole bunch of topics that were off limits because according to their research, women don’t like them, specifically: golf, politics, clowns, and finance. Of course the jackass in me who doesn’t like writing rules decided that I should immediately try to write a very romantic, very sexy novel about golf, clowns, politics, and finance. There’s tons of sex in politics. Now with Tiger Woods, apparently there’s also tons of sex in golf. But finance? Clowns? Clown sex? Maybe this was a little too challenging after all.

And so I am going to write about soccer. Why? Because it is something I know. It is something I like. Like most obsessed people, I unfortunately plan my week around it; some weeks I play four or five times. I’m 41. I should work more. I should probably spend more time with my kids or make my house or garden look more presentable. Instead, on Monday nights or Wednesday mornings or Thursday nights or sometimes, if I drink some of that vitamin water, even Friday mornings, I will be out on the field playing with the boys. (They are mostly boys I play with.) It is not always perfect. I, in particular, am not always perfect. But I still have fun. It is still better than scrapbooking, or craft fairs or knitting or any of those other girly things my girlfriends do. Why do those things? Why? When you can take the ball from a beautiful throw-in down the right wing, deke around someone, plant a lovely cross in front of the goal, and see a friend head the ball into the net? Sometimes in the pouring rain? Sweat dripping off the end of my nose, knee shiny and swollen the next day – all worth it. That is what gets me kicking. Kicking itself.

I just thought I should tell you. In case you thought I should have named my blog “Deoderant”.