SnowBall

This weekend the husband and I played in a SnowBall Tournament. For those of you who have never heard of a snowball tournament, allow me to explain. First move to Utah, make sure it is early February so that there is an 80 percent chance of snow ready to come blizzarding down on 2 feet of permafrost. Allow the sun to appear just long enough to melt the top two inches of solid infield and turn it into a mud-wrestling ring. Then bring on the snow. Once the feeling has completely left your hands, pick up a solid metal bat coated in semi-frozen mud. Request that a man who looks like he subs for tugboats in rough harbors lob a softball at you. He will do so after he dances around like he's got ants in his underoos for half a minute. Contact said ball with said bat. Listen to the joyous sounds of every bone in your hand shattering into a million pieces, whilst feeling the ringing slither up your arm muscles into your teeth. Run to first base. Correction: Slog toward first base, get stuck, slide, watch your life flash before your eyes. Make it. Hurrah!

I was going to begin this post with some comment on how SnowBall is the ultimate in male ideology, how testosterone and cold weather don't mix, how male blood flow to male brains must be hampered by the onslaught of February.

But there I stood out in the middle of the field with the rest of the dinks. So really I have no room to talk.

And really, is there anything he doesn't make look good? Up to our knees in mud, wearing eight layers of mismatched pajamas, so cold our eyes are watering, tummies rumbling without breakfast, and he looks like a Greek god.

Whereas I have an enormous eight-layer Nacho Libre wedgie.