Rugby Reflection

I hobbled up the stairs to my room today after the match, which we won by the way. I was going in for a tackle and my knee slammed into the other girl’s knee, as she was trying to run past me at full speed. I think she unloaded the ball, but I really can’t remember. There were so many plays, attempts where I was trying to fling my body into someone else’s all in the name of ball possession.

Funny what people will do with their free time in modern society, in the absence of fields to plow and socks for the family to darn. Granted, on the cusp of twenty-five, I’d be considered an old maid. And my over-education and tendency to showcase it in the right company? I’d be shunned as marriage material. Thinking about it, I probably would have done well as a courtesan, the intellectual and sexual play thing of older men, back in the day.

I have to admit, part of the reason why I decided to play rugby is because I want to stay fit—get into the skinny jeans, have men oogle my ass, and if I’m lucky, maybe earn a free drink for my troubles. I rationalized, if I had a team to hold myself accountable to, I would refrain from my excessive behaviors (e.g. drinking and smoking), ensure that I keep up my running schedule so I that I could be a productive member of the team, and worst came to worst, when I alienate members of my college, I’d have a social safety net. But, dear readers, I don’t want you to miss the irony: I joined rugby so that I would be fit for husband shopping here in the Ox. Nevermind that it has left me covered in bruises, and I am seriously worried about looking like a battered wife in my strapless formal dress for Feast on Friday. And for all of this work, there aren’t even boys who I would even contemplate dating here and reap the fruits of my labor. Politeness just isn’t hot in the bedroom—hell, it’s prevented them from fucking seeing it!

So, why am I sounding like a fucking JAP right now? Well, the girls who we played against were large. Not in the “Oh my God I need to shop at Lane Bryant for my clothes” large, but fucking HUGE. Their thighs were the size of tree trunks. And of course, as we were showering after the game, a few of us girls were snickering, comparing the opposition to large objects found in nature that do not move, i.e. a redwood. But then I said, half seriously, half kidding around—but come on, there is always an element of truth in our jokes—how are those girls ever going to date?

Let’s forget the FUPA (Fat in the Upper Pussy Area) that could get in the way of any form of coitus, or the lack of stamina on the pitch had to be indicative of their ability in the bedroom to, uhm…well, you know, it does take a lot of effort when you are on top.

When I posed the question, my teammates were silent. It’s one thing to make jokes about their appearances, it’s quite another to comment about the effect that it has on their lives! Leave it to Shannon to take the joking around a bit too far. And of course, someone responded, “they date each other.” But come on, other fat women can only overlook a fault just so much. But perhaps my quip fell flat because it struck just too close to home. Yes, in the dating game, it is a sick competition. If not against other women, then against ourselves—trying to present the best possible person that we are, in the hopes that we attract someone likeminded and bodied.

Then another responded, “Well, you know some guys go for that.”

Oh, you mean a type? A Chubby chaser?

Or for me after an English boy starts to talk to me, “You know, my last [insert large number] of girlfriends were American!” Now, why are you telling me that? Is it because you are trying to tell me that I fit neatly into your type? That you’ve exhausted your Bush bashing jokes? Or am I exotic to you, a brash talking, busty NYgal who likes to talk openly about sex and her quirks? Am I just the recipient of chubby chasers for the bizarre personalities?

But, thinking about that, I don’t know why I said that about those girls today. I guess it just touched upon my own fears. Like, it scares me that I’ve gained SAD weight, and feel out of control when it comes to my desire to hibernate and not leave my room.

So, for today: picking up Kelly from the airport, hopefully in a Porsche, Kelly comes to class, and then pot-luck this evening. I even invited the rugby gals. Seriously, I really like my teammates a lot.

Off to have a cigarette, the only thing that is preventing me from eating the other half of white bread for the bread pudding that I am making tomorrow. And, yea, I’m fitting in my school work somewhere in there.