Who wants to go bowling?
Last fall, Diane and I took the boys bowling and had a blast. I hadn't bowled in years. Diane breaks out the bowling bag and her own shoes and her own pink ball, and I rent the odor-rific size 11 two-tone slipper slides, and find a flat black 16-pound ball with the biggest thumb hole I can find to get ol' chubby opposable into position.
So we did it again, this time with Miss Emily, the precocious one. Enjoyable again. So we do it again...and again. Now, by my birthday, I'm sporting a new purple-swirl Ebonite Tornado and a pair of slick white Dexters instead of the rent-to-smell kind of shoe.
For Christmas, I got Diane a new bag for her ball and shoes. We're bowlers, baby. I'm terrible, mind you. She's good. She whupped my tail by 19 pins in Game 2 last Sunday morning. But I'm getting better. We'll probably head to Mt. Hawley to tear it up Sunday morning. I'll get back to you with scores.
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