Let me set the scene: it was a beautiful day in Las Vegas. The kind of day that makes you believe you’re young again. The air was fresh, the kids were buzzing with energy, the park was bustling, and the soccer ball was just sitting there. Taunting me. Daring me. Calling out in that seductive voice: “Come on. Just one little kick. Show them what you got.”
And because I’m a highly rational adult with bills, arthritis, and a deep understanding of my physical limitations, I decided to go full World Cup mode on that soccer ball.
Now, you should know something about me: I don’t do things halfway. I’m not the “teehee let me just lightly tap the ball with my Kiziks” type. No. I’m the “channel your inner Megan Rapinoe, go all in, ignore the creaky joints and your last chiropractor bill” type.
So I sprinted toward that ball like it was the last gluten free chocolate croissant on Earth.
And reader… I launched myself.
And then I landed.
Like a sack of overconfident, overly caffeinated, slightly crunchy bones, I faceplanted and ROLLED?! into the earth with the full dramatic flair of a Cirque du Soleil dropout.
My booty, my little, disabled, titanium-grade booty, hit the ground with enough force to rattle tectonic plates. There may have been a small crater left behind. I’m still awaiting the US Geological Survey to confirm.
But here’s the thing that really told me I’m still “young-ish”: everyone LAUGHED.
The kids laughed. The other moms laughed. My own family laughed so hard I swear I heard my youngest wheeze and whisper, “Replay that in slo-mo hahaha!”
And you know what? I appreciate that. Because if they had rushed over in a panic like “OH NO, IS SHE OKAY? CALL 911! PROTECT HER SPINE! GET THE EMERGENCY ICE PACKS!” I’d know it was time to retire permanently. Like, from life. Just hang up the cleats and get one of those motorized scooters with a basket for my heating pads.
But nah, they laughed. Which means I’m still in the sweet spot of “young enough to fall like an idiot” and “old enough to know better.”
Let me be clear: my pride was hurt, my butt was bruised, and I had enough grass in my mouth to qualify as a grazing animal. But my heart? My heart was alive. Beating with the joy of a woman who dared to live, sometimes very ungracefully.
I limped back to the car like a war hero. Except instead of medals, I had clumps of grass stuck to my leggings and a faint smell of muddy earth wafting around me. To add insult to injury, I was carrying the glittery pink soccer ball that caused it all because, no, it wasn’t a normal soccer ball, it was a fancy princess one, of course.
And then I looked at my 9-year-old, who is currently enrolled in ✅checks notes ✅:
- Gymnastics Team (because why flip just once when you can flip forever more expensively),
- Tae Kwon Do Black Belt Level (because clearly someone in this family needs to be able to defend us, it won’t be me),
- Ballet 3 (gracefully pirouetting right past my medical bills and health supplements), and
- Pre-Team Swim (where she basically lives in the water now, a tiny amphibious warrior mermaid).
And I thought, “Yep. I have to survive. Someone has to pay for all of this.”
So next time I get the urge to show off my footwork, I’m going to take a deep breath… and sit down. Maybe gently pass the ball with my foot while holding onto a solid object like a soccer mom jungle gym or a medically approved park bench.
Because here’s the truth: I love going all in. I am all in. In parenting. In cheering. In snacks. In life.
But maybe, just maybe, not so much in high-speed outdoor athletics anymore.
That said, if the soccer ball looks at me wrong again next weekend, all bets are off.
Catch me on the field, friends. Just don’t forget to bring a laugh track and possibly a heavy duty first aid kit.
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