Moving to a new place is like being drunk – you kind of walk around in a daze, you talk to strangers for no apparent reason, you are lost most of the time and you are usually confused about what you are supposed to do next – that being the case you tend to rely on other people to tell you what to do, their advice most often being to just get in a cab and go home. That was my experience when I moved to L.A., particularly the always lost part. Why do people give directions in L.A. like “go west” or “take La Cienega south?” I can’t see the effing mountains through the smog you idiots – I don’t know which way the ocean is – tell me to go RIGHT or LEFT! I am not a damn compass.
Moving to L.A. was like being drunk. On top of that it was a huge life change – the first big city I had ever lived in, my first real law job, my first real tangible lawyer MONEY. It was all pretty exciting, until the buzz completely wore off and I came to realize that L.A. is hell on Earth, literally the armpit of the United States. Why would anyone choose to live here? Why must I spend 30 minutes to drive six blocks? And why am I driving there? And what is the deal with all male celebrities being 5’4″? On top of it all- and I don’t care what anyone says – it is totally not natural for it to be 70 degrees in one part of town and 407 degrees in another. The devil made this place, the devil I tell you!
I HATED L.A. and no amount of real tangible lawyer MONEY could make it better. And after spending two years working at my Big Law job, being friends with only Big Law lawyers and talking about nothing but my Big Law clients – I began spending my days dreaming of ways to escape.
Do you remember that awesome movie, Pump up the Volume, where Christian Slater plays a disaffected youth who starts a pirate radio station that threatens to bring down the Man? It is a classic.
There is a great scene where the good girl at school loses it while listening to Christian. She puts all the electronics in her house into the microwave and waits for it to blow up – this is supposed to be her way of breaking out of the life she has built for herself – she is such a rebel! I could totally relate. Except for that I am way too concerned about my personal possessions to ever blow them up and, also, I don’t really like talk radio, it makes me think of Rush Limbaugh – which is something I try to avoid whenever possible.
I thought about moving to San Francisco, I thought about getting a new job, I thought about chucking it all and moving to Costa Rica. Nothing really stuck – mainly because I live in constant fear of defaulting on my crushing debt load and having the Federal Government Loan Sharks come and break my knee caps.
So … I decided I needed an extracurricular activity that would get me out of the lawyer world for a few hours everyday. Sports! – I keenly thought to myself. I’m kind of tall and skinny, I’m sure I could play some sports! (I astutely brushed aside the fact that I am not particularly athletic and whenever I do play some kind of sport I usually break one or more bones). I scoured Craigslist for some kind of softball team, soccer, intramural bowling, whatever. Finally, I found a listing for the inaugural season of women’s rugby with the Santa Monica Rugby Club – no experience necessary.
Have you seen that (mostly) naked rugby calendar that comes out every year …?
Ahem … yes please! Sports and cute boys who like to run around tackling each other. Sign me up!
My rugby career was exactly what anyone who has ever met me, seen me walk, or sit, or attempt to coordinate my hands with my eyes could have predicted – after about five games – and a couple of bad dates – I broke my scapula … during practice … while doing tackling drills … against a big soft bag (don’t judge). Don’t know what a scapula is? I didn’t either. It is actually your shoulder bone, I cracked it right down the middle – the doctor had only seen the injury in car accidents. I! AM! AWESOME! A medical marvel!
However, being the stalwart athlete that I am, I didn’t let the broken bone keep me from continuing to attend all the rugby functions and to troll the men’s team for more potential bad dates. And finally it happened — HE showed up, the ultimate rugby playing bad date, the Mt. Everest of bad dates, my own personal English Channel! I would accept this challenge – a true sportswomen does not shrink in the face of an international player in town for just three months. No … she trains, she does mental fitness exercises, she primps in front of the mirror to “Don’t Stop Believin‘” by Journey! I was ready!
On The Next Episode: Club Day, Sexy Secretaries and the “Reach and Lunge”