Tip o' the hat to JMB for this one

That is, vending. 

(Latin scholars everywhere are busting a gut right now.)

id est

"My bad"

I have no business being on a volleyball court at my current age and state of overweightness. But I love the sport so I'm giving it a go on the Tuesday evening Parks & Rec league.

In my head, I'm still the agile young athlete I once was when I played on intense coed intramural leagues at IU. Or in the years following when I played on the Thursday night "Power League" with the University Club in Fort Wayne. (I was so eager to get there that I changed clothes while driving back from my job in Wabash, but that's another story.)

I still have good court awareness and I'm not afraid of the ball. I remain calm at the net. The jargon comes out of my mouth automatically: "I go." "Free ball." "My bad." I often have a sense of when that ball will come over the net and which direction it will go.

Then a morbidly fascinating mind/body disconnect engages. My brain says "go for that ball" or "move that direction" but my body says "nope, not gonna do it." It's like watching a bad slow motion animation of myself as I see the ball hit the floor, somehow surprised that, yet again, I didn't get to it in time. 

Occasionally I get a set, and the spike is legendary in my head. I used to have a pretty formidable ball strike but now my vertical leap, never great to begin with, is nonexistent. "Listen everyone," I want to say to the other players, "You should have seen how that played out in my imagination. I found the back corner of the court and it was epic!"

But I love the sport, so I soldier on. Then I take an Aleve. And the next morning I move a little more slowly and stiffly than usual. It's worth it.

Who doesn't love a little wheat thin that knows how to party?