Today is one of the last Sundays before spring officially begins, but the weather was beautiful. Unlike most Sundays, I actually got out of my pajamas before noon. I also dared to do something I haven’t done since I was in junior high - I went bowling.
Bowling is not something I’m particularly good at. For one, I don’t ever know if I should bowl right-handed or left-handed, because I write with my left hand, but do all sports activities right-handed. If you saw how crappy I am at sports, though, you, too, would wonder if maybe I should stick with my left.
I met Nick at the groovy Bowlmor Lanes in the heart of Greenwich Village, but only after telling him, “I don’t want a physics or technique lesson. Please don’t make this something I have to try to be good at. I already know I’m terrible, and that makes it kind of fun.” Had we been playing Scrabble, I would have been more competitive, but I know my weaknesses. They are fodder for jokes, okay? Everything has its purpose.
We had to wait fifteen minutes before getting a lane, due to two posh bowling birthday parties and a lot of freshly scrubbed families getting their bowl on. Who knew bowling is so popular here? I can only remember going once with my dad, aunt, sister, and cousins when I was a kid… Nick and I scoped out the other bowlers. I found a few elementary school students I thought I could outbowl. Nick admired the technique of this one guy who seemed so unfazed, like he knocked the pins down with Jedi mind tricks. Seriously, the guy probably had his very own bowling ball with his name engraved in it. I’m guessing that name would be Rick.
At Lane 23, we signed in as Batman and Wonder Woman. I then proceeded to trail slightly behind Nick in points WITHOUT GUTTER GUARDS. This is a big step for me. I’ve always used them and as far as I remember, have still bowled a bad game. Nick wasn’t as good a bowler as I thought he might be. It’s not fun to be completely obliterated. He did get two strikes, mind you, but I got a spare. Woohoo.
One thing that impressed me (besides the cases of celebrity autographed bowling pins, including one from Monica Lewinsky and one from Chris Kattan that says, “I love the techno music and the balls!”) is the high quality of the bowling shoes. At Bowlmor Lanes, they aren’t your typical fungi-ridden, slappy, clown shoes. They fit great, the laces aren’t stuck together with spilled soda, and the colored patches are pretty cool. I could have worn them all day.
So the first game went well. Nick barely won. In fact, I “let him win,” as all bad sports say. The second game was crazy. Nick got two strikes. At one point, I went to throw the ball, lost control of it, and threw it backwards against a protective wall. Yep. AS SEEN ON TV. That can really happen. Fortunately, no one at Jimmy’s seventh birthday party was injured. When I realized what happened and everyone in the vicity of our lane choked out a collective, “Ohmigod!!!” I collapsed into hysterical laughter. The pink ball I was using, which sadly weighed probably five pounds, bounced off the wall and started rolling slowly down the lane. I told Nick to chase it down so I could re-attempt to bowl, but he refused. The bowl, like many of its sisters before it, went into the gutter…and got stuck. Oh, well. Batman went on to win another game by a gazillion points. And Wonder Woman, well, it’s a wonder she didn’t destroy part of the bowling alley.
After bowling, we went to Cozy Soup ‘N’ Burger where I had a great ham sandwich and curly fries. I told Nick to try the fries, but when he grabbed the darlingest, curliest one I said, “No, not that one! This one, ” handing him a dark, straight fry. Was it not enough that he beat me twice in bowling? He didn’t deserve the best fry, too. The food was really good and the service was fast. Highly recommended.
Nick and I strolled and found ourselves in Washington Square Park, enjoying a kid teaching himself to unicycle (ouch), a guitarist singing about the joys of Sundays, and an attentive Pekingnese dog that sat with us. We sat in the fountain and bathed in the sun. At one point, Nick opened his eyes and found himself surrounded by three little black boys all selling candy. Ever the generous one, he bought M&M’s and Starburst from one boy. He gave the other boy a dollar after the kid with the saddest brown eyes ever told us all donations were being accepted. The third boy didn’t leave. “But I thought you guys were working as a team.” The boy shook his head, “No, sir.” Another sigh, another dollar. “Fine. There.” The fleecing of America - it starts so early nowadays.
We went to the dog run, walked into shops, and found ourselves in Au Bon Pain talking to a French primatologist who is currently staying at the Bowery White House hostel. Yikes! I stayed there in March of 2003, and I still tell stories about that nearly incurable skin disease I contracted. Really. The walls don’t go all the way up to the ceiling, so people can spy on you in the shower and every noise carries. It’s kind of like being on an amalgam of Big Brother and Survivor - no privacy, nasty parasites, a hazardous environment. “Hostel” isn’t a homophone of “hostile” for nothing.
I got home not so long ago, and I feel so grateful for this day. What a beautiful time of the year, but also, what a beautiful time of my life. I spent it with someone I really like who does a great Pee Wee Herman impression and doesn’t mind that I nearly beat him in bowling.
Okay. Half of that’s true, and that strikes me as being exactly enough.
