I Hate Tag

I'm slow.

I'm clumsy.

I'm a poor sport (not outwardly, but in my head I'm such an ill wisher).

And, I'm always it.

So, when Mama Mania tagged me for some photo blog thing, I thought I'd pretend it didn't happen.

I'm a grown up, you know.

I don't have to play tag; I don't have to be it.

But, that was before I realized that this form of tag is different.

Not at all mean, or a way for the playground lords to exert their power over me.

This tag is fun!

Mostly.

Because to "play" you get to upload your 6th photo in your 6th folder and blog all about it.

Well, I love photos, so why not. Can't hurt, can it?

I was probably going to share photos this week anyway, you know, 'cause that's what I do.

But...I wasn't exactly planning to share this particular photo.

I was really planning on pretending as though this photo was never taken; to pretend that what inspired this photo never happened.

But, alas, I'm it, and I'm really trying to work on that poor sport thing.

So, here is my photo.



Pretty normal.

Not much to see here, just your friendly, everyday plastic play land thingy.

That's because that's what it wants you to think.

It wants you to feel all excited and happy to be there, so you let you guard down, so you get comfortable.

It wants to entice you with its sliding-climbing-pushing-pulling-areas-of-fun-and-enjoyment.

To win you over.

To reel you in.

And, when it has you in its grip.

When you are fully under its spell.

It barrel rolls right out from under you and leaves you bruised and battered on the ground, clutching your shin for dear life, praying that your child (and please Lord, none of his teammates) saw you tumble gracelessly to the ground, as your younger offspring stare at you in a state of confused concern, tears springing to your eyes, the redness of horror fluttering across your cheeks.

It giggles spins on mercilessly as you lay there with some strange recycled tire mulch crap clinging to your hair and creeping into your sports bra, wondering what went wrong.

How did this happen?

Should I call 911?

No...that's ridiculous. But it. Hurts. So. Effing. Badly.

And, then you realize the saboteur that has victimized you is actually not this innocent (largely, but not entirely) source of physical fun.

It was your 31 year old train wreck of a body that failed you.

And, it was your twelve-year-old-brain-stuck-in-this-crap-hole-thrown-off-balance-by-excess-weight body that was whispering, "I'm bad, I'm bad, I'm bad, I know I'm bad," in your ear that set you up for failure. It was that twelve year old know it all that convinced you to try the death trap because it looked like fun ("like oh my gosh, like totally sooooo much fun").

So you cry some more, while your four year old feeds recycled tire mulch to your baby whose cloth diaper is filled to the brim and hanging on by a thread.

And then, you pack up your grotesquely swollen, badly bruised ego leg, and your grossly soiled children, and you drive yourself home and realize that you have to share this story with the entire world (maybe not the world, but a lot of people) all in the name of good sportsmanship.

Thank you Mama Mania; I hate tag.

And, in case anyone was wondering, I'm fine. Only slightly injured from the fall. No internal bleeding or hideously broken bones as initially suspected:)