Nothing but Net

I’m finally beginning to understand what all the fuss is, about the World Cup. Here in the United States, where it takes a team of Clydesdales and a professional athlete with a pending felony charge to get a football game rolling, we don’t appreciate the fact that every other country in the world is up to their ankles in a sport where a forward pass takes place at a level where feet are more important that fingers and there is something more spectacular to see than girls with extended ribcages and multicolored pompoms.

And all along I thought the World Cup was half of a really big bra.

In America, when we’re still yelling at our kids, “Don’t grind the crumbs into the carpet with your foot. Pick that up with your hands,” international mamas are saying, "How are you going to dribble if you can't even kick your sister?"

I don’t think these World Cup guys started as babies discovering their fingers. Once they got their toes in hand, they were ready to play. These guys learn to use their feet for fancy ball work better than many of my relatives use cutlery at the family reunion. That’s why we have mostly finger foods; Cousin Earl is still puzzled by the spork.

I don’t want to toot my own vuvuzela here, but my kids have played soccer since they were so small their shin guards doubled as a protective cup. (The vuvuzela is horn that produces an obnoxious noise in support of the obnoxious behavior on the field or in the row behind you. We have something like that in America, too. We call them “Yankee’s fans.”)

Son Two opted out of soccer when he realized that games competed with Ninja Turtles time on Saturday morning (after all, Michaelangelo was a Party Dude), but Son One played until he stretched the envelope of the age limit far enough to require extra postage. Rules state that once you’re old enough to serve in Congress, you can’t play AYSO soccer.

When my kids first started soccer they spent more time chasing the ball into the woods than kicking it into the net. I’ve never seen World Cup play halted for a parent to dash onto the field to tie somebody’s shoe. Son One took his job seriously as a ninja goalie and didn’t allow me on the field even when he was six, but I don't mind admitting that the time he tied his shoe to the string in his pants was a show stopper.

Team USA is out of the competition for this year, but their inspiring play brought the game to our attention like never before. Americans have a dedicated mindset when in comes to sports and I’m sure they will use the four years between now and the next World Cup competition boning up on the rules, finding out more about their favorite players, and planning ways to make a profit by selling bobblehead dolls. After all, the way to our hearts takes a direct path through our wallets.

I hope they never have the games in this country, though. After watching the SuperBowl commercials, I'm convinced that if the World Cup took place in the United States, someone in advertising would try to supersize it and add fries.

Core Care

This year I finally decided to try yoga as form of excercise to replace my previous routine of "No Exercise at All." Lately I can’t perform the “Trying to Tie My Shoe” dance in the privacy of my own grocery store without a friend pointing out snippily that yoga would strengthen my core muscles and give me balance.

The only core I care about is at the center of my candy apple. At my age, self improvement is just another name for “Deductible."

For the Shoe Dance, I just stretch down toward my foot and simultaneously raise my Reebok while hopping on one foot and trying to catch my shoe strings. I don’t need yoga, I need higher shoes.

However, in the spirit of avoiding the “I told you so” song performed by a choir of the sagest of my friends and family, I decided to learn some yoga. I figured it wouldn’t take a bloomin’ Lotus to convince them to take their downward dog faces somewhere else. Besides, given my motto of "no excess movement unless there is a fast-moving spider involved," it beats World Cup soccer as a form of exercise.

“You need to work on your asanas,” my sister perked.

“Well yours isn’t getting any smaller, either,” I snapped.

“No, I mean your poses. Start with some Sun Salutations for warmup and work your way through.”

“Through what? Do I have to greet everything in the sky? There’s a bird up there that I am NOT speaking to until he cleans up my car."

I decided that as a modern woman who once engaged the delivery room nurse in hand-to-hand combat over the rights to the Demerol, I could at least create my own yoga positions. Poses that would fit in with my graceful and elegant, if slightly advanced, lifestyle. I’m including them here because my goal in life is to help other people. That, and I also have a video camera and a lifelong wish to win the big money on America’s Funniest Home Videos.

Down with the Dog Position: Stretch as far as possible across the bed until you can at least touch the dog, who is presently indulging in a flagrant violation of house rules by reclining dreamily and just out of reach on the bed as if he’d received an invitation from Lassie for Dogs Rule Day. Smack at his paws with the tips of your fingers until he rolls his eyes, sighs heavily, and jumps down in exasperation.

Tiny Print Eyeball Squint: This is an exercise for the muscles of the face. Try to read the answers to yesterday’s crossword puzzle in the newspaper without wearing your glasses. Squint eyes tightly, wrinkle your nose, and draw the upper lip toward the wild hairs sprouting from your eyebrows. Pull newspaper so close to your face that you could inhale the letters off the page, and repeat the exercise. Extend arms to full length, leaning to one side to allow more light onto paper. Repeat exercise. Give up and roll up paper to use later during Down With the Dog position.

Crossed Legs Sneezing Position: As a mother of two children, I am at the time of my life where a single sneeze can cause an embarrassing fashion disaster. (During cold and flu season I leave a change of clothes in every room, two in the trunk of my car, and one in the glove compartment.) I find that the following exercise eradicates the dangers of a water hazard should respiratory systems erupt during a heated discussion at a PTA meeting. When a sneeze threatens to attack, quickly cross one foot carefully over the other and squeeze the thighs together like lemons at juicing time. This exercise may draw comments from the crowd, but allows you to put off the purchase of designer adult diapers for a little while longer.

Late for Curfew Aerobics: What good is an exercise program that doesn’t elevate your heart rate? When the teenager is out past curfew, sprint to the window every five minutes to check for their car. Sprint to the telephone and snatch up the receiver to see if there’s still a dial tone. Sprint to your purse and dig for your cell phone to see if there’s a message from the Sheriff. When the errant teen finally wonders in, indulge in a rapid toe tap while crossing the arms over the chest. Breathe in and out quickly to stimulate blood flow to the heart. Produce an atom-splitting tirade on House Rules to cleanse the body of impurities.

Corpse Pose: This is an actual yoga position designed for total relaxation at the end of a workout. The body is stretched out on the floor much like a murder victim on CSI. It doesn’t work the core muscles, but it sure beats trying to get up until an Emergency Responder carrying oxygen and a tow rope happens by to give you a hand. So if you happen across a woman with untied shoes stretched across the Weight Watchers aisle in the grocery store, step over her. It's me. I'm either finding inner peace or waiting for the tow truck to arrive.