Last Thursday, my son’s summer baseball season ended with a great big championship game win and a story for you, my dear readers.
Back when Jameson’s baseball season started, I noticed one of the other mothers sitting by herself during one of the practices. Her lawn chair was parked away from all of the other parents and she seemed disinterested in her son’s practice. Cool. Another anti-helicopter parent. Her and I have something in common.
As we were walking to our cars, I smiled and said “hello”. She looked me up and down, rolled her eyes, got in her maroon-colored Camaro, and peeled out. At the time, I remember making a bunch of excuses for my future friend. Maybe she was admiring my outfit? Maybe she didn’t hear me? If I had a Camaro, I would probably peel out of parking lots too. I blew it off.
A couple of weeks later, I saw her again. Now, let me explain this woman. It was a Saturday morning and she was wearing workout clothes. Not like, let’s throw on something that I am going to sweat in. Not, who cares what I look like. Think, tight booty shorts, one of those sports bras that have all of those straps that look cute but don’t do shit for support, matching shoes, etcetera. And her hair up in a perfect “messy bun”. And a full face of make-up. And a handful of rings and bracelets. And giant hoop earrings. I’m sorry, but have you ever tried working out in giant hoop earrings? I haven’t either. Because it is stupid.
Now, I am not saying anything is wrong with looking cute. All I am saying is that this married, 40-something year old woman OBVIOUSLY put a lot of effort into her appearance. For baseball practice. At 9:00 a.m. on a Saturday.
Anyway, I attempted to make contact again. As we walked out to our cars after practice, I made a joke about Saturday morning practices being quite the drag. Not only did she roll her eyes again, she threw in a “why are you fucking talking to me” look, a head shake, and a throaty, valley girl “ugh” before jumping into her Camaro and peeling out again. What. The. Fuck? Needless to say, I didn’t make excuses for her behavior after that episode and decided that she obviously didn’t care to take on the role of “Cari’s BFF”.
Fast forward to last Thursday night, the championship game. The fans were out in full force. Grandma What’s-her-name and Uncle So-and-so decided to come out to scream words of encouragement to little Jimmy Ball Player and insults at the poor umpires. Midlife Crisis Barbie was parked out in her lawn chair, away from everyone. She was wearing the same type of outfit – teeny, tiny jean shorts with the bottom of her ass hanging out, a maroon-colored shirt to match her Camaro, perfect hair, perfect makeup, and tons of jewelry.
One of the kids hit a foul ball. All of the players on the field and everyone in attendance watched the ball, almost in slow motion, fly out, out, out to where this woman was sitting. No one yelled “heads up”, per normal ball field procedures. Was this a great example of the Bystander Effect? Or perhaps she had been a cunt to everyone else at some point of the season and we were all subconsciously wanting to see her get whacked by a ball? Or maybe we were all thinking that surely this woman realized that this very slow flying foul ball was headed her way?
Nope. She was on her phone. And she took a foul ball directly to her perfectly spray-tanned shin.
I’m sure the hit hurt like hell, but from where I was sitting half way across the field, it looked like her pride hurt worse than her shin did. She then picked up her lawn chair, dropped it next to the closest spectator, sat down, and began laughing and conversing with the lucky parent.
Maybe if she would have taken a baseball to the shin earlier in the season, she would have found out how great of a friend I can be. I would have saved her from that foul ball, if only she were sitting next to me. We could have been tooling around town in her Camaro right now, giggling together over my hilarious past weekend shenanigans. She could be over on a Sunday night, giving me fashion advice while I wow her in the kitchen with my culinary skills. Or, instead of writing a post about a baseball named karma, this could have been a “how I met my new best friend” post.
I guess we’ll never know…