They Shoot Horses, don’t they?

A few hours ago, I returned from…bowling.  Yes, you read right:  bowling.  To a second-wave feminist, an activist, a boomer who was going to change the world (again)–the type who threw linen over the lampshade and thought Pier 66 wicker was boss–the very idea of bowling was anathema.  Imagine renting used shoes–yes, wearing footwear probably full of fungi and other contractable foot disorders–to participate in a game once imaged in full crinoline skirts and innocuous suburban flirting, slinging a small ball against pins shaped like old coke bottles.  JMJ…preserve me! Eww!  Well…I had a blast!  Extremely friendly people, from all walks of life; of all ages; some extremely gifted at targeting even a single coke bottle standing in a remote corner, and others no better–and sometimes worse–than I was, just having fun, canoodling for seconds at a time, pressing the flesh with high-five’s (with nary a worry about germs, not an antibacterial in sight), and enjoying a two-hour reprieve from daily life and its many burdens.  Even five years ago, if you’d told me I’d be bowling, I’d have laughed (ha!HAH!) in your face.  But the foreshadowing was receiving a gift sub to Reader’s Digest about five years ago. The woman who subbed to Vanity Fair, GQ, Vogue and Cosmopolitan now kept Reader’s Digest in the, um, restroom just as a, shall we say, quick and dirty read.

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