Reason #1,378 I do not have a career in athletics
I've been lurking around Tova Darling's fabulous blog for a while now, but have never done a TAT.
The awkwardness of this one is still a little bit fresh...but at least the wounds have healed.
So, the hubbs and I are constantly trying to relive our childhoods in some manner or other, be it in hunting for all the marshmallows in a box of cereal or quoting "Saved by the Bell" with the vigor usually reserved for religious texts. So when the hubbs suggested we go go-carting one fine spring day, I jumped at the chance...having never actually BEEN go-carting. We headed to this entertainment-mecca type establishment (that I clearly remember as being far less tacky) and took our turns on the course. It was a blast, and riding the high of a successful outing, I suggested we hit up the batting cages, too.
Perhaps I should not have been so literal in my wording.
The hubbs takes his turn in the slow-pitch first, doing pretty well. In typical me fashion, I get the idea that it can't possibly be that hard, so I pop my tokens in the machine, take what I think is perfect batting stance, smile at the six-year-old in the cage next to me, and get ready to swing. First one, miss. Not surprising. I gear up for pitch two. I see the ball. I tense up, ready to swing...and am blinded by white-hot pain in my hand. You know, the sort of pain that kind of makes you think you're going to puke a little bit? Before any more balls could whiz past my face, I step out of the cage, trying to keep my composure and NOT cry in front of the first-graders waiting in line.
Turns out, the slow speed of the ball probably saved my hand. As it were, the ball busted up my fabulous diamond engagement ring, bruised the bone of a couple fingers and somehow caused a decent amount of bleeding. A trip to the ER and two more to the jewelry store, and all was fine. But it was certainly the last time I'll try my hand at the cages.