Our office Christmas party took place yesterday. As soon as the hands of the clock hit 12:30 the inhabitants of Lower Plaza West bundled up, headed out, and motored over to Emerald Lanes, where we munched finger steaks, french fries, and onion rings–maybe even a shrimp or two. We sipped beverages, tied up some borrowed shoes, and scoured the place for the perfect bowling ball {orange, thank you very much!}.
Before we left the office, we were assigned teams, each made up of bowlers and cheerleaders (i.e. the injured and the party poopers). We were the Frosty Spares, and we boasted a cheerleader with actual pompoms and one professional bowler. Poor fellow. At least he could go home and drown his sorrows in the bottle of wine he won for high score.
You know, I can’t recall the last time I bowled. I believe it was a woman’s gathering at church, ten, maybe fifteen years ago. I, too, won a prize–for a technique that was sui generis. That’s fancy talk for one of a kind or, more appropriately, peculiar. It stems from the fact I’ve no muscle tone to speak of, so in order to refrain from rolling down the lane with the ball, I must stop before I actually pull the ball back and let her fly. The first time a friend witnessed the spectacle, she was laughing so hard, tears streamed down her face. “Oh, glory!” she said, as she pulled me into a bear hug. Hmm.
I like to think my technique was a bit more fluid this time around. Perhaps it’s due more body mass. There are perks of eating all that starch at Thanksgiving, you know.
Anyway, the very first frame I bowled a strike. A strike, people! Even I could not believe it. The excitement was more than I could handle, apparently, for I started shaking . . . which promptly produced two gutter balls.
By the end of the game our boss sauntered over. She looked at the board and shook her head, “Amy, what is that?” she asked. Assuming she meant the Strike!-gutter ball-gutter ball-Spare!-gutter ball-2-Strike!-gutter ball-gutter ball . . .
I’m a well-rounded woman, I replied. She looked dubious.
I hope it doesn’t end up on my PPR (Performance Plan & Review).
All the same, I bowled an 86–three strikes, a spare, and more gutter balls than I’d care to admit. Better yet, it was a glorious reprieve from deadlines and uncertainties. We even had a few extra hours to do as we pleased.
If you ask me, it’s a good reminder: we’re well into that crazy time of year of shopping and wrapping, sending Christmas cards and attending Christmas parties. Sure, most of it’s fun, but if you lean toward the side of introvert, it can be positively exhausting. Best we make a concerted effort to take care–to be silly and to laugh; to give where we can and avoid guilt when we can’t; to make new friends and enjoy the company of old; to find a quiet place of solitude in the middle of the hustle and bustle.
In other words, let’s commit to eighty-six the stress that has a way of sneaking into the season. After all, on that night so long ago, the angel never said, “Behold I bring you great anxiety. . . ” Quite the contrary. “Behold, I bring you tidings of great joy . . . ”
Let us not forgot.
The perfect setting for A Tuba Christmas. You see, this time each year tuba players, both young and old, gather in the rotunda of our state’s capital building . . .
This year, a little girl and I became fast friends. She loved me for my camera, mind you, but I didn’t mind. She threw her arm around my shoulders and together we watched the spectacle, below. Every once in awhile she’d look at me and say, “Where’s your papa?” So I’d zoom in, and we’d have ourselves a better look . . .
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