Tuesday 10/3

We must have really burned the Colonel out last Friday, because we have a sub today. She smells like cigarettes and claims to be a choir teacher. She’s subbing, she says, because— how surprising—she’s out of work.

It’s more crazy in here than it was the other day, too, even though no one is in a football jersey. The flying objects are all paper-based today, of the airplane or spitball (gross) variety.

The football game was interesting on Friday. We took the bus to a school at the other end of the county. The guys continued to act all WACK, and I was stuck on the bus with them for two whole hours because traffic was snarled. And it started raining the minute we left and got harder and harder as we sat on the highway. I figured we were going to get there and be told the game was cancelled and then have to turn around and spend another two hours on the bus getting back to school. But, NOOOOO, we actually played in the pouring rain. People were sitting in the stands with garbage bags over their heads. What is WRONG with sports fans?

I think we lost, but I’m only the scorekeeper. Richard helped me (a.k.a. kept the actual score) again, while I held an umbrella over us. The opposing team’s manager gave me the umbrella when we arrived, and I thanked him very enthusiastically for being so considerate of my well-being. Then he told me it was to keep the scorebook dry.

Richard was, again, making a very fine attempt at teaching me the rules of the game. He told me, again, where to put the 6 when a touchdown was made, and where to put the 1 when an extra point was scored by the ball being kicked over the goal posts. And where to put the 3 when the ball also got kicked over the goal posts but in a different situation—which is really confusing, you have to admit—and after a really long time of this (easily five minutes), I asked him: “So what inning are we in now?”

“Football has quarters,” Richard told me with a kind look, but one that also might be used when you see a dog rolling along the sidewalk in one of those broken-hip carts. “And we’re still in the first quarter.”

“The FIRST? How many are there?”

“Four,” Richard said. “A ‘quarter’ means that something is divided into four parts. Like money—four quarters equal one dollar.”

“This is why I love math,” I said. “It makes so much sense.”

He went on to show me how you have to keep track of the number of yards a player runs, and when he got to talking about averages, I realized he might be a good person to ask a question that had been on my mind.

“Uh, Richard, “ I said. “What is an average REALLY all about, anyway?”

“It’s basically the mean,” he said. “When you have several quantities, you add all those together and then divide by the number of quantities, and that’s the average.”

“Yeah, all that, but what if something is supposed to happen in, like, 34 days, and it still hasn’t happened in, like, 36 days? What is that about?”

“It’s just that if the thing you’re talking about happens more than once, then it could happen one time in 40 days, and another time in 28 days, and that would still average 34.”

“So, what you’re telling me is that if something is supposed to happen in 34 days, on average, then it could happen any other time at all, and may NEVER happen in 34 days?”

He nodded.

“This is why I hate math,” I said. “It makes no sense.”

Richard laughed at me then, but in a sweet, football-mentorish way.

The guys were very subdued the whole way back. It’s amazing the effect losing has on testosterone levels. A few of them even got to talking to me about Halloween. It seems that a small group of footballers (four, to be exact) have been planning their Halloween costumes. This surprised me, actually. I didn’t figure any of these guys to be into dressing up.

“I’m Wolverine,” one guy said, very matter-of-factly, and then started pointing around at the others, adding, also very matter-of-factly, “he’s Magneto, he’s Cyclops, and he’s Professor X.”

So I responded by saying, very matter-of-factly, “Huh?”

“We’re X-Men,” Wolverine said.

“The comic book X-Men, not the TV X-Men,” Magneto added.

“I’m so glad you cleared that up,” I said in a relieved sort of way (though I don’t have a clue what the diff is).

“We’re making the costumes ourselves,” Cyclops said. “The biggest challenge for me is the sun visor, from a design standpoint. It has to be incorporated into the overall hood and body suit.”

“I wish that were the extent of MY challenges,” Professor X said.

“Uh, no offense meant or anything,” I piped in, “but aren’t the X-Men kind of . . . how do I say this . . . silly?”

“Actually, X-Men are very serious,” Wolverine said.

“I am a Holocaust survivor, fighting for human rights causes,” Magneto said.

“And I fight racism,” Professor X said. “Which is how I became a paraplegic.”

“Wow. Sorry about all that,” I told them. “So, uh, why are we having this conversation?”

“We need someone to be Rogue,” Wolverine (who is apparently the spokesperson for these X-Men) explained.

“Uh, Wolfie,” I said, “have you noticed that I’m not, exactly, a ‘Man’ sort of person?”

“Rogue is a female X-Man,” he said.

“We’re planning a costume work session for Sunday,” Cyclops said, looking at me very hopefully.

Magneto snapped his fingers then and said, “I forgot, I have to study for a physics test on Sunday. But I’ll get there.”

“I’ll be a little late, too,” Prof X said. “I have youth group. But I really need to work out what to do about a wheelchair.”

Then they went on to entice me by describing the outfit they’ve been designing for this Rogue character (as in, me), which includes—according to some of them—yellow and green striped leggings and platform boots.

I caught the eye of one of our burliest, meanest-on-the-field ends or backers or liners or whatevers, and I did that heads-down, side-to-side look-thing to get across the question “Are these guys for real?”

He smiled like a five-year-old (missing teeth, and all) and said, “Second stringers, for two years running. They’re cool.”

“Personally,” Wolfie was saying, “my vote was to not make Rogue look like the action figure, but to have that sleek gown with the criss-cross bodice from her first appearance.”

Feeling as if I had stepped into a Marvel Comics edition of Project Runway, I stared at them, open-mouthed, while they discussed various issues surrounding the Rogue costume. This was NOT what I had expected from guys of the large, football variety, so I was struck speechless. That is, until Magneto said:

“All right, the cape may be optional, but the dyed hair is a must-do.”

“Time out!” I cried. “I’m not dyeing my hair.”

“It’s just a shock of white in the front,” Prof X said. “You’ll look terrific.”

“No, I won’t look terrific,” I said, “because I won’t be DOING that.”

“Well, we could use washable white hair paint,” Wolfie said. “It’s not the effect I was going for, but if that’s a deal breaker for you, we’ll compromise. Okay?”

I nodded, which I believe they must have taken as my agreement to be the Rogue, because it was followed by a lot of high-fiving.

(It’s amazing what a simple NOD can get a person into. I’m thinking of investing in a neck brace to stay out of trouble.)

“So, what do we do in these costumes?” I asked. “I haven’t trick-or-treated in a few years.”

“Things like costume parties,” Wolfie said.

“There’s a Seventies costume party on Halloween at the community center near Nate’s house,” Cyclops added.

“Who’s Nate?” I asked.

“Me,” Magneto said.

“Oh! You have real names!” I said, trying to make a little joke, but they all looked at me like I was a crazy person (and not a normal, comic book character like the rest of them).

“Finally, we have our missing Rogue!” Cyclops exclaimed randomly, after a few minutes of awkward silence.

“Yeah, with a missing X-Man, you’d be W-Men,” I said, attempting, again, to get one, teensy little laugh out of them, but it just produced similar stares.

Which, of course, worried me, considering how important a sense of humor is to my very existence. But I did not give up hope! I figured their senses of humor just needed to be revealed, and I would surely see this on Sunday when I spent all that costume-related quality time with them. After all, I asked myself, how could four football players who dress up as superheroes NOT have a sense of humor?

The answer to that question—I found after the costume work session—is: VERY EASILY. Nice guys, but they take their X-stuff WAY too seriously. Even when Wolfie took a group picture of us, they did several retakes to make sure no one was smiling.

(That pic is now on FaceBook, apparently with me tagged. I figured this out when about a dozen different people I don’t know said, “Hey, Rogue!” when they passed me in the halls today.)

I did manage to squeeze in a shopping trip to look for a new top this weekend, though. Went to a mall that’s about twenty minutes away if you drive, but we (Brady and I) had to take a long bus ride (it’s a big weekend for long bus rides), since not one relation of ours was willing to take us there. They all said they had to clean our houses, or shop for our food, or cook our meals, or work to make money so we could buy things, so they didn’t have time. (And teenagers are called selfish. Sheesh.) But none of that has anything to do with anything, except to avoid the subject at hand, which is:

The 1.5 pounds I gained and all the exercises I did have resulted in me needing a bigger clothing size, yes, but not the exact sort of clothing I had in mind. What I need is bigger jeans. My top size is the same. I didn’t want to believe that I’d experienced a no-growth situation (at least in the target zone), so I went to the bra department, to see if maybe cup-size would be more sensitive to the changes that I had been working on. But, NOOOO, my cup size is still the same. (Now, if I could just switch that size for my interim grade in band, I’d have a 4.0 in the class, and my bazooma would be, uh, in C-major . . . so to speak.)

Since I had not explained to Brady the precise nature of my exercise goal, I kept my displeasure to myself until I was alone in a dressing room. Then I looked in the mirror and did one of those maniac yelling things. Only silently, like a mime. Which got some positive energy going for some reason and turned out to be (you might say, given the next idea I had) very UPLIFTING.

“Brady,” I called to the next dressing room, where she, too, was trying on bras (though with much better results, I’m sure). “I’ve got an idea. I’m getting one of those instant-bosom type bras.”

“What, do you add water?” she asked.

“Oh, very funny,” I said. “I’m talking about the shapely, wonder-bra jobbie I saw out there. What do you think of that?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said.

“You wouldn’t, would you?” I said. “It’s one of those very SHAPELY bras—comes with curves, you know?’

I expected her to tell me that I should appreciate the way I am, and that it’s not all that fun having big boobs, and how they get in the way when you’re running, and all that kind of stuff. But you know what she said?

“Go for it.”

Which (a bit miffed) I did. I’m wearing it now. It feels as if my chest is encased in foam. Which it is, I guess. I may look like Barbie. In body armor.

A paper wad has just hit me in the chest, and it bounced almost to the ceiling.

Memo to self: Don’t play Ping-Pong with this thing on.