When I was a young’un, my parents started riding my ass to play sports, and I was sure they meant severe ones like football.
Coming back from a beach trip, I was told, “you need to pick a sport, or we’re going to pick one for you.” Upon hearing that, I looked at the car-door handle and wondered how much it would hurt to fling myself out onto the highway.
I started to think of “sports” that I might could handle: croquet, slingshot (lol), bowling.
I decided to ignore it, and it went away. I was able to finish out the summer attempting Jell-O desserts from magazine recipes. “If the temperatures are right, maybe I can get this layer of fruit to float in between these layers of Jell-O, then I can put on the whipped cream!”