Despite abundant evidence to the contrary, I’m a pretty classy broad.
By Hannah Wallace
At midnight last night, sweaty and exhausted, I was wolfing down smothered hash browns at the Ellenton Waffle House when the goalie for my co-ed hockey team—a young man whose hysterically foul sense of humor would make R. Crumb blush—remarked, “Do you ever wear dresses? We need to work on your woman skills.”
In the previous 17 hours, after sleeping on the floor and getting up at 5:45 a.m., I’d played four hockey games—two in Fort Myers, then two in Ellenton. So no, I wasn’t exactly a homecoming queen, but it pains me to think I’m not giving my feminine side enough playing time (not that a sports metaphor is the best way to set aside my tomboyishness). While my blog later this week will detail the belching debauchery of my weekend’s women’s hockey tournament, I first feel the need to point out that there is indeed a classy, theater-going, dress-wearing, gas-free side of me. That side doesn’t get a lot of locker-room acknowledgement, but I hate to think it’s being overlooked completely.
Our company Christmas party is this Friday, and I am absolutely looking forward to donning a sexy red skirt and heels. And though my legs bear the bruises and scars of years of competitive soccer and now weekly ice hockey, they still look darn good, and dammit, I’m going to show them off.