I solemnly believe that sports were invented by the devil.
Think about it: How ridiculous is it for human beings to intentionally wear hideous clothes in order to run, lift, sweat, and suffer? Sure, some people get medals or trophies out of it sometimes, but the rest just play sports because they’re “fun.†That’s right, fun. Clearly, great evil is afoot here.
To be fair, I did try to find a sport to call my own. A lot of people told me that I should try basketball because of my above-average height — I have never shot a ball through a hoop without the help of a steep stool. Perhaps I could try running, they say, because of my long-ish legs. Except we once did a physical fitness test for school, and I literally clocked in last in the class.
And because volleyball and teenage girls seemed to be a perpetual combo back in my day, I auditioned for the volleyball club in the sixth grade. The tryout was mostly uneventful, except for when I accidentally served the ball straight to the coach’s face.
I gotta admit, though, it’s hard — even for someone as un-sporty as I am — to ignore the appeal of athleticism, specifically European football. I may look like a Snorlax when I try to run or shoot a ball, but David Beckham or Cristiano Ronaldo certainly don’t.
I don’t even care what “real football fans†say about girls like me who only love the beautiful game because of the beautiful players. First of all, I don’t. I will stay up until three in the morning to see a match for the thrill of being able to live-tweet a fantastic goal or an undeserved foul. Yes, I know what a hat trick is and I (sort of) understand the offside rule.
But all right, you got me. My favorite club is Real Madrid because I’ve been into them since the very beginning and all the players are just so freaking gorgeous (and okay, talented). Have you seen Iker Casillas or Xabi Alonso sans their jerseys? Ay, Dios mio. You really can’t blame a girl for dreaming.
So today I have accepted that I am flawless in every way except for my crippling inability to become a rousing sportswoman. Perhaps I am a born spectator, doomed to sit among the crowds. But if the world ever turned upside down and I was given the chance to recreate the world of athletics to suit my own set of skills, I’ve thought of a few sports that I could get into.
Best part is, these Marga-approved activities are running shoes optional. Hell, you can even wear stilettos while you’re at it. And if you ask me, playing sports while wearing five-inch heels is the ultimate test of true athleticism.
Emotional eating
The rules of the sport are simple: Eat when you’re sad. Eat when you’re happy. Eat when you’re angry. The winner is the one who ends up calling McDelivery for a breakfast meal — good for five people — at three in the morning. My personal moment of glory was a particularly heartbroken time I ate my feelings in terms of Mini Stop fried chicken. Needless to say that meant having it for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. For a week. Am I sorry? No. Am I fat? Yes.
Coping through period pains
Girls in general get a lot of flak for being testy and mean whenever Aunt Flo comes over for a visit. Can you blame us? Period pains are the worst. Personally, they don’t hit me often, but when they do, I feel like hurling an axe towards anyone who dares push my temper. So far, my kill count’s down to zero thanks to French fries and ice cream, but that may change if I ever allow myself to snap at rude passengers on the train or dumb jeepney drivers who stop wherever they like. Being nice during your period is such a test of human will that I don’t even think this should just be a sport — more like a rite of passage towards the gates of heaven.
Marathon chick flick viewing sessions
Now this is a great team sport to play with friends. All you need is a lot of pizza (notice that my preferred sports mostly involve food), even more booze, and a ton of romantic comedies. The more ridiculous the plot and the more cheesy the dialogue, the better this game will be. It’s an amazing sport because you’re just sitting down but you’re burning calories from all the crying!
Plus points if you can find a way to relate a character or situation in the film to your own life, no matter how “vague†people claim the resemblance is. For example, my life is practically like Kate Winslet’s in The Holiday, except for the part where I’m not a 30-something white woman from England who dates Jack Black and whose brother is Jude Law. But we both write for a newspaper and stuff! So, yeah. Totally me.
Hunting for British royals
It’s been clear to me since birth that there is an international conspiracy hindering me from being with my betrothed, who you commoners may know as Prince Harry of Wales. When I visited London last December, I tried to find my way through the back gates of Clarence House, the home of my intended, but an incredibly rude palace guard tried to kick me out. A lesser woman may have given up so early in the game but this, my friends, is the one sport that I will never dare lose. If you intend to follow my path to glory, no need to finagle Harry’s heart from me. The birth of Kate and William’s son (who I still think should be called Renesmee) assures future generations that they’ll still have a debonair royal to stalk for themselves in a couple of years.