Ten Things I Don't Get Or Like About Sport and Exercise

I could probably sum up this whole post in one word: EVERYTHING.  However, I'm the Queen of crapping on about nothing, so without further ado here are ten random, hodge podge things I don't get or like about sport.

1.Balls.

They are scary. I hate them and fear them. This aversion dates to back to childhood when I was perpetually in fear of a ball hitting me in the face during sport or in the play ground. There is probably a word for this particular phobia. Ballsophobia?  Who knows. Anyway, I have it. Therefore, it's ironic that I've ended up surrounded by males with their balls. I meant soccer balls. For goodness sake, don't be so juvenile. Just because I was juvenile enough to go with such a bad pun...ahem...

2.Sports Commentary

The kind where they (the commentators) make the most stunning announcements that seem like Captain Obvious by pointing out that the runners are at the starting line or a player has passed the ball during a footy match. I would never have noticed. Plus, there is the endless chatter and droning on before a match. It's boring enough, dudes. Just get on with it!

3. Garrulous/Annoying/Obsessive Spectators or Supporters

You know the kind. They are loud and proud supporters of their team, going to such extremes as dyeing their hair the same colours as their team. They will spend the entire match bellowing out helpful instructions, as if the players are wandering around the field bewildered; not knowing what to do until that moron in the grandstand yells at them to tackle for the umpteenth time. These supporters can also sometimes be one-eyed and don't accept losing very graciously. Alternatively, they may sob in utter despair if this happens. I'm never sure whether to feel sympathetic or just downright alarmed at the sight of a grown adult weeping like a baby over a sporting event. It's just a game, isn't it? Suffice to say, I don't get it.

4.The Same As The Above But Parents Of Children

My boys play soccer because it's better for them to be running around in the sunshine on a Saturday morning rather than sitting in front of a PlayStation. Apparently, some parents have other ideas about their children playing sport. They take it all a bit too seriously. They yell. A lot. Their faces become contorted as they break out in a cold sweat and then yell some more.

Sometimes they look like the are about to burst a blood vessel or take a fit as they implore young Jack/Stella/Lachlan to "RUN!"

"KICK IT!"

"WAKE UP!"

"WATCH WHAT YOU'RE DOING!"

They repeat this tirade incessantly for the duration of the match. I always end up feeling sorry for young Jack/Stella/Lachlan.

They are children for Christ's sake, not playing in the World Cup. Okay, I suppose budding sporting stars have to start somewhere, but I doubt that embarrassing the crap of your kid is the ideal way to fire them up. I wish these parents would just have a sausage sandwich and CHILL.

5. The Actual Rules

My knowledge of soccer pretty much goes like this: There is a ball, there are two teams and they try to kick the ball into a net to score a goal. The end. There is probably a bit more to it, right? Don't ask me what that is, though.

6. The Amount Of Money Sporting Stars Are Paid

I can't deny that sport is lucrative. It seems that at the top end, athletes are paid extremely well. Take Golf for example. Seriously - take it. Most. Boring. Sport. Ever. But Golf heroes like Tiger Woods are zillionaires. Why? On second thought, the money could be the only incentive to take up something so mind-numbing as hitting a ball into a little hole. There could be more to Golf than that but I wouldn't know. I've already tuned it out after 2 excruciating seconds.

7. Ridiculous Sporting Gear/Attire.

Luckily, leg warmers and thong leotards have been out of style for a decade or two now. At least I hope they are ( I can't be entirely sure since I never set foot in a Gym) because they are crimes against fashion. And what about the tendency to wear gym gear as regular clothes? I may be guilty of this, but only around the house. I change when I have to go to school pick-up. Unlike some parents, who turn up in head to toe Lycra. I guess they want everyone to know they've been working out. Fair enough. I hadn't thought of that tactic. Maybe I should wear my yoga pants to school pick-up. That way there is remote chance that it looks like I've been working out instead of surfing the net for half the day. I mean, I'd never do THAT. Nope. No way. Shut up.

Then there is the humble old track suit. Isn't this kind of redundant in the land of Oz? I mean in terms of actually doing any physical activity while wearing it? Nobody wears them for that, right? They're just for lounging around the house in. Or is that just me? Ahem...

8. Irritatingly Upbeat Instructors

These are usually seen on exercise DVD's. I have quite the collection of these because I'm that one in a billion bizarre person who likes working out at home, alone. It's hard to find one with an instructor who isn't as grating as nails on a chalk board.

"Don't you stop! If you rest you rust!" they holler while pumping away with determination.

"You're doing great!" they then announce while beaming in between spirited "Woo's!" and "Yeah baby's!"

"Yes! Yes! YES!" moans one instructor on a DVD I own. It sounds like she's trying to channel Meg Ryan's infamous fake orgasm scene in When Harry Met Sally. I'm reasonably certain that exercising or doing aerobics doesn't cause multiple orgasms because a) if it did, it would be SO much easier to motivate ourselves to do it; and b) if it does, then I must be doing it wrong.

9. Over The Top/Complex Workout/Aerobics Routines

This usually goes hand in hand with the above annoying instructors. They will be gazing out triumphantly on the cover looking ripped, while on the back cover the blurb assures you: This energising, fun workout can be done by anyone at home, with any fitness level, from beginners to advanced. Bullshit.

You unwittingly begin the workout feeling optimistic. All goes well for the first five to ten minutes as you warm up. You're able to follow the moves without any problems. You're actually getting into it! Exercise is FUN! Wrong.

"Okay, we're moving on now," beaming annoying Instructor announces. Suddenly she is telling you do things you thought were only applicable in Cirque Du Soleil. 

"Okay! Lets do 50 jacks, then drop and give me 50 push-ups!" she performs this feat effortlessly while you huff and puff away, ineffectually. She bounces back up "WOO!" she declares "Now stand on your head, do 10 back flips, pirouhette six times, balance on one finger, then the other finger, then mambo, then cha, cha, cha and give me ANOTHER 50  PUSH UPS! YOU CAN DO IT!!" 

Um no, I can't. Okay, I may be exaggerating slightly. But this is what it feels like.  A good old grape vine is as complex a move as I can muster. If you don't what they are then you obviously never did aerobics in the 1980's. Consider yourself lucky.

10. Trophies

My boys and Micky Blue Eyes have an assortment of soccer trophies. Don't get me wrong, I am proud of their sporting  achievements. But why oh why do all trophies have to be so hideously ugly? Naturally, they want to display these monstrosities proudly around the house.  Not only are they are an interior design nightmare in terms of aesthetics, but they are also horrific dust collectors. Then again, dusty and hideous seems to be the look we were aiming for around here so I guess I should quit complaining.

Thus ends my illustrious list. I just wanted to add that while I really dislike all sport, I particularly abhor cricket. Or, as I refer to it, The Three B's; which stand for: Bats, Balls, BOOOORRRRRRING!! 

And with that, I'm out of here before all you cricket tragics take after me with a bat...*ducks for cover.*

Linking up with Kirsty from My Home Truths for I Must Confess.

Also linking with  Emily from Have A Laugh On Me for Laugh Link.

What don't  you 'get' about sport?

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Sport Makes Me Snooze

It is totally un-Australian (that's a word, right?) of me but all sport bores the bejesus out of me. There. I said it. I've always really wished I was the sporty type. One of those Mum's who turn up at school pick-up clad in tight Lycra looking svelte, spray tanned and smug. I think I can safely say that at age 43, it just isn't going to happen. I loathe Gyms and abhor all team sport. I am uncoordinated and uncompetitive. Considering that I had to Google the word competitive because I appear to have forgotten how to spell and apparently the synonyms for competitive are: ruthless, merciless, aggressive and fierce. I'm reasonably certain nobody has ever uttered any of those words and my name in the same sentence. It is quite clear that I was never meant to be an Olympian. Unless they ever make Cake Eating an Olympic event. Then I'm in with a shot.

I do not even enjoy watching any sport. Cricket and tennis are just the three B's to me. Meaning, bats, balls - BORING! Micky Blue Eyes, who is thoroughly addicted to all things soccer whether it's playing or spectating, cannot comprehend my antipathy toward sport. To him it's the equivalent of saying you don't like breathing.

"You didn't even like any sport when you were a kid?" he'll ask in utter bewilderment.

"No," I assure him.

"I don't understand how you could be a kid and not enjoy running around, playing sport," he stares at me as if he doesn't know me and is worried that he may have married some bizarre alien creature.

Perhaps it is something to do with being Aspergian. I gather that a great deal of us do not gravitate toward sport. I don't mind doing a bit of moderately paced basic aerobics (grapevine, anyone?) as long as it's not too complex with too many fancy moves. And as long as I don't have to wear leg warmers and a leotard. The 80's, Olivia Newton John and Jane Fonda have a lot to answer for.

I've recently taken to doing various workouts on Youtube at home. I'm weird. This way nobody has to see all my wobbly bits jiggling up and down or how hopelessly uncoordinated I am. I can wear my daggiest, most comfortable gear. It works for me. Kind of. It might work a bit better if I wasn't addicted to cake. Ahem.

As far as watching sport, the only thing I can tolerate watching is figure skating. There is music and they have pretty costumes and the moves are incredible. Although it does make me feel a bit wobbly and dizzy just watching them spinning around.

Thankfully my parents never insisted that my brother and I had to do any sports when we were growing up. I would have found it torturous. Micky Blue Eyes is most insistent that our boys should all be doing at least one sport. Mr 12 and 9 have been playing soccer for a number of years now and they seem to like it, especially Mr 12. They have also learnt to swim. I haven't learnt to suddenly become all passionate and intense about soccer even when it's my boys playing. I know. Mother Of The Year, right? The shame....

Plus, having an interest in sport would certainly be an advantage when it comes to small talk. Another thing I am simply not stellar at. Sigh. Instead, when people start discussing the tennis, cricket, footy or anything else with balls in it, I sit there and fade into the furniture. Some sporting dude apparently became Australian Of The Year and I had never even heard of him. Don't ask me to remember his name. Shut up.

On the plus side, at least I will always have a convenient cure for insomnia. I watch sport - instant snooze fest. In fact, after writing this, I already feel a Nanna nap coming on...

Oh well, that's me. UNsporty Spice. Later, dudes.

Linking up with Kirsty from My Home Truths for I Must Confess.

                                                         Is it UnAustralian to not like sport?

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The Three B's

Sport and I do not mix.  I associate all sport with the three B's, ie. Bats, Balls, BOOORRRRING.  It all started in year 4 at primary school, when I had this appalling teacher who forced us to play endless games of volley ball.  Endless for me meant any number greater than zero.

I simply detested it.  I had a dread of the ball coming near me and would flinch and move away instead of diving in and hitting it like you're supposed to.  I never noticed the ball was headed my way until it was right on top of me, as I was already tuned out anyway.  Unlike other kids who looked forward to sport as a means of escaping formal lessons, I dreaded it like most people dread root canal.

  Of course I was always the last person standing there that nobody wanted when team captains had to choose people during sport at school.  You couldn't really blame anyone for not wanting me on their team.  I was completely inept and uninterested. The frequent jibe I heard was always: "You're supposed to hit the ball!"

On one occasion I do remember becoming annoyed when somebody yelled at me yet again during sport at school and shouting back something really forceful like "Oh, shut up!" That actually  was forceful for me, as I think it was the only two words I uttered through all of high school. "Come here young lady!" the teacher announced sternly.  I trudged over sullenly, preparing for reprimand.  "Congratulations," he announced instead "that's the first time you've ever stood up for yourself." It was probably the last too. Oh well.

Unfortunately for me, becoming a mother of three boys hasn't lessened my antipathy for all things sport like.  I still have zero interest.  I haven't even made an appearance at Master 8 or 10's soccer as yet this year.  The season has just started, so I expect I will eventually, at which point the following will happen:

• My eyes will glaze over in approximately ten seconds , even when it's my own child playing.
• When an occasion pops up where we have to go in opposite directions to take both boys to a soccer match at the same time at different parks,  Mick will then ask me detailed questions about the game, such as which team mates were there, who scored the goals and who, in fact, won, and I will have no idea, because after glazing over after ten seconds, I was then tuned out for the entire game.
• All the other parents at the game will be overly concerned with their child's team winning and their child actually scoring a goal, screaming at them insanely throughout the match.  All I will be concerned about is if there is coffee available at the kiosk, and when it will be over so that I can go home.
• When I get there I will have to rely on Master 8 or 10 to locate their team mates because I'm still not entirely sure who they are or what they look like, even near the end of the season, because I've been so tuned out.
• I can't ever really remember the actual name of the teams they play for.  Is it Under 9 Dolphins or Wombats? It's some sort of an animal, I know that much. Can't remember which one though.
• Canteen duties will traumatise me.  This requires me to do all of the things I am hopeless at, at once.  Dealing with people face to face, remembering stuff and adding up numbers all at the same time.  Too scary. Was it one sausage sandwich and two cans of coke? Or one can of coke and two sausage sandwiches?  And then I will proceed to add it all up wrong, either giving the delighted person a free drink or the peeved person the incorrect change.  Consequently, I think I've only done canteen duty a grand total of once. 

Then, in addition to all of that, if the entire season isn't tedious enough, you have the end of year presentation.  This is when you are required to sit through several hours in an auditorium, hearing multiple long-winded, dull speeches about what a great year it's been and politely clapping for every other child clopping up to the stage to get their trophy while completely bored out of your mind, when all you are interested in is your kid getting their trophy and getting the hell out of there and having lunch and a drink or two. Because frankly you need one after having to sit through such mind-numbing boredom.  Or maybe that's just me. 

Sadly though, the joke is on me.  The truth is that because of my tendency to be a sooky la la stresshead I desperately need to exercise. I also need to burn off all the cakies and crap I eat, but I have given up on this presently as this would require completing a triathlon daily.  And then I still may not have burned enough calories.  But I still need those endorphins.  So what do I do?

 I can't do team sports.  Don't even talk to me about Gyms. I have attempted to go to them in the past  when I came to this conclusion. I hate them with a passion.

The queueing up for machines, the doof doof music, the overly polite, patronisingly fake staff who are only interested in getting you to sign up for a hellishly expensive membership.  The posturing people giving you pitying looks at your Best & Less purchased sport wear.  No thanks.

So I exercise at home.  By myself.  Where nobody can see what an uncoordinated klutz I am.  Wearing an attractive ensemble of leggings, one of Mick's t-shirts and joggers with holes in them.  Huffing, puffing, sweating, face red as a beetroot.

Which reminds me.  I suppose I had better go it do it.  Soon.  Oh, okay, now.

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