Everything I Need to Know I Learned from Dungeons & Dragons (7 page)

“You got to be well rounded,” he explained. “It's one thing to kick a home run but you got to prevent the other team from doing it.”

“Okay,” I said, kicking up grass with the toe of my new sneakers. I didn't want to catch pop-ups. I wanted to go inside, have a bowl of Rocky Road, and watch
Three's Company.

“There are no scholarships for kickball, you know,” Mike said from his perch in the living room window.

That was probably a good thing because my attempts at catching my dad's pop-ups resembled a pile of bricks being dumped in a straw basket from thirty feet in the air.

“Oops,” I said, watching another big, red ball plunge through my encircled arms.

“It's probably getting too dark to see,” Dad said. Ever the optimist.

Maybe it was the pressure, or maybe I grew too fast and couldn't get used to my longer limbs. Whatever it was, it ended my kickball career nearly as quickly as it started. Suddenly my signature line drives were going foul. When I kept the ball in bounds I couldn't break the infield. The sneakers my dad bought for my training felt like flippers as I trudged to first base. I pulled off my Giants sweatshirt and stuffed it under my bed. I was retiring.

My dad stopped asking me to practice my pop-ups after dinner. Instead of visors and tube socks he brought home Nancy Drew books.

“You can probably solve those mysteries faster than Nancy can,” he said. “You were always good at solving riddles. You could be a detective!”

But now was my chance to make it up to my dad. I would show him that those two and half weeks of backyard practice weren't for nothing. The kickball phenom was still alive and … well … kicking.

“Who still plays kickball at our age?” Chris asked.

“It's part of a casual sports league,” I said. “They play dodgeball and flag football, too.”

My buddy Lars had been playing in the league for years and was constantly on me to try it out.

“It's too painful to go back,” I told him. “I'm just not ready.”

“It's been, like, twenty-five years,” he said. “Besides, we drink beer while we play.”

“Okay, I'm ready.”

There was no better time to try, what with my newfound alliance to Kord. According to
The Player's Handbook
, “athletes and fighters revere him.”

“Eye of the Tiger!” I shouted as I left work.

I met Lars at a park near Lake Union. He and my temporary teammates were drinking Pabst Blue Ribbons out of paper bags. Good thing I wasn't bowing down to Bahamut, the god of justice, today or else I might have had to call the police.

“Shelly's going to be filling in for Jenny,” Lars said. “She was the kickball champion of her fourth-grade class.”

“Wow. I've got some big shoes to fill,” I said, and they all burst out laughing. If the big red ball and nervous stomach didn't already make me feel like a fourth grader, the feeling like everyone's in on the joke but you sure did.

“No, sorry,” explained Lars. “I was talking about
your
glory days. No pressure, though, okay? I'm sure the champion still lives within you!”

Great. I hate it when people have expectations. Hopefully my inner champion isn't too busy kicking the crap out of my frustrated artist.

“That was a long time ago,” I said in case they didn't notice I wasn't eight years old. Just in case they didn't, I found a paper bag and started chugging.

The team seemed nice enough and I took some comfort in the estimation that people who drink beer out of lunch sacks in the middle of a highly trafficked neighborhood before sunset don't take many things seriously. When the other team showed up, they greeted each other like long-lost friends. In fact, although not “long-lost,” most of them were friends.

“We've all been playing together for years,” Lars explained. “Sometimes you're on a team together, sometimes you're against one another.”

“Ah, such is life,” I mused.

Regardless of what side they were on in the park, they were all on the same side of the bar. The first rule of kickball is apparently to get nice and drunk first. I hope this game goes into extra innings because there's no way I can drive home.

I was banished to Jenny's usual spot in the outfield.

“Stay there,” some guy named Jack told me.

“Righty-o,” I answered, taking about ten giant leaps backward from where he told me to stand. Those playground drunks couldn't walk a straight line. Let's hope they can't kick a ball in one. About four seconds later a giant, arching, growing red dot came crashing toward me.

“You got it, Shelly!”

Kord, damn it! I now know what it would feel like to have Mars spin right off its axis, drop from the sky, and land on your chest.

I opened my arms, closed my eyes, and yelled, “Thunder!”

Whoosh!
I felt the breeze as the ball sailed right between my forearms and then,
whack
, bounced back up to smack me in the face.

“Ow.”

When I opened my eyes, Sarah, the left fielder, was standing over me. “Oh dear, someone have a towel?”

“
Ah wink ah whenaled mah wop whip
,” I said.

Lars and some other guy (I stopped caring who these irresponsible jackholes were) helped me off the field and gave me a can of PBR from the cooler to hold on my lip.

“That was a good try!” Sarah cooed. “ ‘A' for effort.”

Thut up, Thara.

WEDNESDAY'S GOD: IOUN

GOD OF: KNOWLEDGE

Promotes:
mental power, prophecy, and skill

I fell asleep with a bag of frozen peas on my face and when I woke the next day, I realized the damage wasn't as bad as I initially thought. My top lip was a bit swollen but the bruising was minimal. At least I could say my S's again.

“You look like Taylor from
The Real Housewives
,” Laura said when she saw me.

“Sadly, my nose didn't get broken,” I lamented. “I was hoping to get a nip and tuck when the doctors had me under.”

“Does this mean your kickball career is over?” Chris asked. “For a second time?”

I wasn't sure what was worse. Being compared to a Botox-addicted bored housewife or having a career-ending injury crush my hopes and dreams for a second time. Didn't matter. Today was a new day, and a new day meant a new god. I sat in my desk chair, closed my eyes, and took a deep inhale, letting my abdominal cavity expand and lengthen. And then I got dizzy and almost passed out.

I'm still learning here, people.

“Om …”

“Oh no. Who are you worshipping today?” Laura asked.

“Today I shall pray to Ioun, the god of knowledge, skill, and prophecy.”

“Great!” Laura said. “Then
you
can work on this presentation.”

“PowerPoint will not help me bridge my mental and emotional faculties,” I answered. “But yoga will. I'm taking a class tonight!”

“What the hell does yoga have to do with Ioun?” Chris asked. “She wants you to seek and distribute knowledge. Educate yourself and others.”

“Um, what part of
class
did you not understand?” Look at me distributing knowledge already.

“I'm not sure that's entirely what she means, but go ahead. Knock yourself out,” he said, in an unfortunate choice of clichés. “Oh no, wait. Don't do that. Have fun.”

“Ha, ha. Very funny.”

Sadly, I sort of agreed with him. It would be nice to enroll in a Spanish class or finally learn how to knit or sit in on a lecture at the Seattle Art Museum. But yoga is the only class I could find that was available on such short notice. Just in case Chris was right and I failed to properly educate and enlighten, I'd go to
NPR.com
and donate $25.

My neighborhood is riddled with yoga studios so I picked one closest to home. Okay, that's not why I picked it. It happens to be across the street from my favorite tap house. Bart is meeting me after class so I can deposit some delicious hoppy calories back into the old reservoir.

I haven't taken a yoga class since … well, ever. I tried to do one of those On Demand videos when I was feeling lazy about not going to the gym for three days but the teacher was so Zen I fell asleep in chair pose and only woke up because of the charley horse in my quad. I was a bit nervous about class until I walked into the studio's lobby, which smelled like my old friend Phoebe. A woman behind the desk greeted me. Her long, lithe limbs were enshrouded in a black body suit. She looked like a vanilla bean.

“Is this the beginner yoga class?” I asked.

“It is!” she said with so much glee I wondered if she thinks I'm from Extreme Yoga Studio Make-Over Edition or something. “Is this your first time?” she asked, handing me a clipboard full of paperwork.

Sure that I will never muster that much glee in my own voice, I just nodded and started initialing things.

My future classmates didn't look very “beginner.” Maybe it's because they all had Klean Kanteen water bottles and were wearing those expensive yoga pants and matching tops that I pass over at T.J. Maxx in favor
of the cheap cotton sweatpants and T-shirts I find around the office. It's not like I'm going to a bar dressed like this. Bart's bringing me a change of clothes.

Their clothes, on the other hand, you
could
go to happy hour in if you were the kind of person who enjoyed drinking half-price appletinis while showing your midriff.

I did not have my own yoga mat, so Vanilla Bean lent me one. I'm instantly grossed out over the thought that my face is going to get pretty intimate with this rubber cesspool. I exfoliated for this? Why didn't I plunk down the $10 it probably costs to get a mat? Even if I used it only once in an actual yoga class, I'm sure I could have found another use for it. Cushy shower mat? Beach towel? Protecting valuables like those Stuart Weitzman boots I just purchased? Instead I'd probably get a staph infection to go with my fat lip.

I unfurled the borrowed mat next to a woman I perceived to be the least yoga-ish. She was about my age and her sweatpants didn't match her sports bra. I liked her instantly.

She smiled at me as I set up. “Hi, I'm Becky.”

“Hey,” I said, introducing myself. “It's my first time. I'm terrified. Hold me?” I'm a tad nervous and when nervous, I overshare. “Just kidding. You don't have to hold me. Yet.”

“My second,” she said. “Wait until you see my killer moves.”

Aw, Ioun, I think I love you. I'm already chalking this up as a win. I may not leave with my moon in the seventh house, but I've already met a nice person. Now as long as the instructor is an actual human and not a tape recorder, I think we'll be in business.

She
was
human, and after her welcome, she had us close our eyes and breathe. In and out. Innnnn and ouuuuut. Innnnnnnnnnnnnn and ouuuuuuuuuuuuuuut.

Snort.

I'm falling asleep again! What the heck is wrong with me? Is there no middle ground between ZEN and REM?

After we had sufficiently expanded our rib cages we moved on to some stretches.

“Is this yoga?” I whispered to Becky. I know there are types of yoga that are vigorous and athletic, but this ain't it. I've done more strenuous moves just turning off my alarm clock.

“It's
this
kind of yoga,” she answered, mock yawning. We both stifled giggles.

When the woman in front of us bent over, I got all Sir Mix-A-Lot on her and whispered, “Oh my God, Becky, look at her butt.”

Becky did a fantastic job of turning her snort into a cough. I tried to behave.

If I'm not going to justify that beer and barbeque sandwich I might as well get something out of this, I thought. I concentrated on getting in the Zen zone. I opened my mind and my rib cage, ready for enlightenment.

It really was peaceful in there. And the stretching did feel good. Perhaps my spirit guides had come for me after all.

“Now we move into downward dog,” the instructor cooed.

Becky, still smiling, slowly bent at the waist and I followed suit. Just as I came mere inches from the mat, I heard something amid the pan flutes and whales calls coming from the CD player.

Pfffffffffffftttttttttttaaaaaaaaaapppppppprrrrrrrrrr.

The unmistakable sound came from my right. Oh dear God! Don't laugh, don't laugh, don't laugh! Oh my god, Becky, look at
your
butt! But it was nearly impossible for me to suppress the laughter because when it comes to bathroom humor, I'm an eight-year-old boy. My new friend must have been humiliated. The least I could do is pretend I didn't hear it.

I wouldn't look at her, so instead I focused on the instructor and the more advanced beginner yogis. And oddly enough, they were all focused on me. Wait a minute …

I looked at Becky. “It's okay,” she said. “I'm sure you're not the first.”

“Oh wait …” I began. “That wasn't …” Becky couldn't possibly believe that was me? Was she that out of touch with herself, she didn't notice an emission like that? Becky needed yoga more than I do.

“Let's move on, class,” the instructor urged. “These things happen.”

Sure, they happen! I wanted to yell. To
Becky!
I'd barely broken a sweat, let alone wind. The class returned to their downward dog poses, and I spent the rest of the class sneering at Becky. It's not very yogalike, and probably even Ioun would be disappointed, but still … if only I had a fraction of my tiefling wizard Tabitha's magical prowess I'd have cast diarrhea on that fart-framer right then so the class would know exactly whose butt cheeks were heralding the great downward dog fart. But I refrained, and not because I'm not a spell-casting wizard but because I knew I'd never be back.

Namaste, bitches.