The Sporting Life

A Friday night fete. I end up trapped at the kitchen table with new colleagues who want to get philosophical and chummy. Very chummy. I am sober. Very sober. And I am the only woman left. Things get awkward. I wait until a broken wine glass provides a convenient distraction and I run out the door, beelining for my car. I arrive home still wearing a whistle around my neck. I am not comfortable without at least one wingman, I know this. And yet, I pushed it.

That’s what a good sport would do.

On Sunday, I go snowshoeing for the first time. Snowshoeing across a frozen lake, to be exact. The wind is cold and it steals my breath and makes my good ear hurt. I huff and puff to keep pace. I cringe at each groan beneath my feet.  I don’t fear much, but I fear ice. Slipping, falling, breaking into brittle little pieces.  And yet, I pushed it.

That’s what a good sport would do.