The Magic Rounders-Bout

On my lunch break, I tend to head to my usual park, which is just along the road from where I work. This is where I am now, basking in the sunshine. It was always instilled in me that I should get out in the sunshine, and the fact that I suffer from Seasonal Affective Disorder proves that without the sun, I can’t function properly. Anyway, I’m watching some kids from one of the local schools play rounders, and thinking about my own childhood and the game of rounders.

For some reason, I always loved the game of rounders. However, like many other sports, I was rather rubbish at it. I remember playing it indoors once, in the sports hall, and one of the popular girls shouting at me when I couldn’t catch the ball. Because I couldn’t catch a ball; I had even more trouble hitting it. You would think that an experience like that, which wasn’t just a one-off, would have put me off the game, but no. I see a bit of sunshine and a large expanse of grass and suddenly I wish I was with a group of people playing rounders.

To me, rounders is like the game of love. I can’t catch it, I have trouble hitting it so I can score a rounder, or even just get as far as first base. I believe it is the idea of rounders, or in this case, love, which appeals to me the most.

Like much of life, the ideal is very different from the reality of the lived experience.

As my 35th birthday approaches faster every day, I find the idea of love weighing on my mind. This is nothing unusual, but milestones always give one furiously to think, in the words of Hercule Poirot. I left my husband eighteen months after my 30th birthday, shortly before our 5th wedding anniversary, and in our 10th year of being together. Like it or not, milestones force you to face up to what you may not want to see.

Thirty-five to me is halfway to forty; halfway through my 30s, although to me, this thirty-something crisis started a long time before I even hit 30, probably around my mid-twenties. So I have felt unsettled for almost a decade. It’s no wonder the forty minutes I spend walking to and from work give me so much to peruse over.

The kids and their teachers have packed up their rounders equipment now and gone back to school. Back to the reality of maths and English. No more fun (or torture for some kids) in the open grounds of the park. Back to containment, or the safety of the classroom.

I know I will see them again, as this fabulous and rather un-British summer is forecast to continue at least another week. But I shall watch from a distance, as I do with love, knowing that I may not be very good at it, but hoping that one day soon I’ll have the chance to play a great game.

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The Magic Rounders-Bout

On my lunch break, I tend to head to my usual park, which is just along the road from where I work. This is where I am now, basking in the sunshine. It was always instilled in me that I should get out in the sunshine, and the fact that I suffer from Seasonal Affective Disorder proves that without the sun, I can’t function properly. Anyway, I’m watching some kids from one of the local schools play rounders, and thinking about my own childhood and the game of rounders.

For some reason, I always loved the game of rounders. However, like many other sports, I was rather rubbish at it. I remember playing it indoors once, in the sports hall, and one of the popular girls shouting at me when I couldn’t catch the ball. Because I couldn’t catch a ball; I had even more trouble hitting it. You would think that an experience like that, which wasn’t just a one-off, would have put me off the game, but no. I see a bit of sunshine and a large expanse of grass and suddenly I wish I was with a group of people playing rounders.

To me, rounders is like the game of love. I can’t catch it, I have trouble hitting it so I can score a rounder, or even just get as far as first base. I believe it is the idea of rounders, or in this case, love, which appeals to me the most.

Like much of life, the ideal is very different from the reality of the lived experience.

As my 35th birthday approaches faster every day, I find the idea of love weighing on my mind. This is nothing unusual, but milestones always give one furiously to think, in the words of Hercule Poirot. I left my husband eighteen months after my 30th birthday, shortly before our 5th wedding anniversary, and in our 10th year of being together. Like it or not, milestones force you to face up to what you may not want to see.

Thirty-five to me is halfway to forty; halfway through my 30s, although to me, this thirty-something crisis started a long time before I even hit 30, probably around my mid-twenties. So I have felt unsettled for almost a decade. It’s no wonder the forty minutes I spend walking to and from work give me so much to peruse over.

The kids and their teachers have packed up their rounders equipment now and gone back to school. Back to the reality of maths and English. No more fun (or torture for some kids) in the open grounds of the park. Back to containment, or the safety of the classroom.

I know I will see them again, as this fabulous and rather un-British summer is forecast to continue at least another week. But I shall watch from a distance, as I do with love, knowing that I may not be very good at it, but hoping that one day soon I’ll have the chance to play a great game.

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