We got my Mom and Dad's old ping pong table on Saturday - the one my Grandma and Grandpa bought for my sister and I when we were kids. Now that My Beloved and I have it, all we have to do is look at each other and say one word: pong. It's a challenge and a call to action all rolled into one.
And it's a fabulous distraction. It's as good as cleaning, but WAY more fun.
We were really busy this weekend with family gatherings and errands, but we squeezed in a game of 'pong every change we got. I was soundly beaten by my brother in law (who helped us get the table) in my very fist match since the age of 16. I'd been harbouring fantasies that I'd be a ping pong prodigy when I held that racket in my hand for the first time in nearly 20 years, but when I really stopped to look back on my not-so-glorious 'pong career, I realized that playing and winning are two very different things.
I played a lot when I was a kid, but I don't think I ever won one single game. It didn't help that my opponents were my older sister and my father, but I still never won.
There's nothing quite like being the youngest. You get the pants beaten off of you at every turn and at everything.
And nothing's changed.
Well, until tonight. After countless trouncings, I finally beat My Beloved 21 to 18. Or maybe it was 19. But in any case, I beat him. I won. I asked for confirmation of the win (stunned as I was that I seemed to have done it) and then did a tiny little victory dance when my win was confirmed. He took quite well, and so I suspiciously asked if he threw the game, but he claims he didn't.
Which means he was beaten by a girl.
Ahhhh. Victory was never so sweet.
I highly recommend ping pong. Whacking the hell out of those little white balls is proving to be excellent therapy, and I'll gladly take all the help I can get, and victories wherever I can find them.