All about sucking at sports, Owen, licuados, and me

Owen inherited his athleticism from me. In other words, he is a pauper. Are he and I unathletic because we’re uninterested in athletics? Or did we lose interest in athletics because we have no athletic ability? The answers to these questions (with regards to me, anyway) are rooted so deeply in the swampy origins of my narrative that I will never know. I was bad at sports as far back as I can remember and therefore - or because of that -- I found them extraordinarily unpleasant, humiliating, and pointless. Today, I am basically indolent and sedentary and happiest when my life involves moving from the sofa to my bed to the seat of a movie theater, punctuated (maybe) by a gentle evening walk around the neighborhood wearing normal street clothes and cute shoes.

But the medical establishment insists that such a lifestyle leads to illness and premature death, a warning I didn’t take seriously until a few years ago, at which point I started exercising for real. I go to a CrossFit gym. It is a such a bad fit for me. The gym is full of tough, great-looking, gum-cracking mesomorphs who crushed P.E. when they were growing up and went on to play Division One soccer or whatever before becoming stock brokers, unlike, say a yoga studio or a water aerobics class, which is where I really belong. The awesome warrior people at the CF gym are always forking up grass-fed steak salads out of Tupperware and they dissolve protein powder into water. Not milk, water. That’s really hardcore. Meanwhile, after my workout the other day I walked across the parking lot to Walgreen’s and bought up a basketful of half-price Peeps and Cadbury eggs. I felt very proud and rebellious. It’s important to maintain my identity, even if it means I get diabetes.

Anyway, I think the exotic cultural milieu at CF has been part of the draw for me and I've come to really like my coach. There’s a lot to observe and think about and I could probably write a book about what I have seen and thought about over 2+ years at the CF gym. I'm often so busy thinking during my workout that I forget what I’m doing and lose count of burpees or can’t seem to recall how the rowing machine works. You think I'm joking? I wish. Then I wonder if escaping into my head is why I am so bad at athletics or if I escape into my head because I am so bad at athletics.

Unlike his father, who ran cross country in high school and works at a sports web site, Owen has never been into either watching or playing sports. Unlike Isabel, he has never been interested in dance. Owen comes home from school and reads comic books with our elderly cat on his lap and carefully plots his moviegoing for the coming weekend, checking the revival theaters for any stray screenings of The Big Lebowski. He attends to his many collections. He listens to records. He follows a number of TV shows and podcasts. He’s an aficionado of iFunny. He posts reviews on crappy movie sites. He takes very good care of his plants.  

I think he’s adorable and perfect exactly the way he is. 

But I can see that he is gawky and physically uncertain and I understand why a 15-year-old boy might want to make some changes. A few weeks ago, out of the blue, he said he wanted to do CrossFit. I signed him up. He's been twice. Yesterday afternoon, I got there to pick him up as he was running across the parking lot, just like I run across the parking lot, except faster, and he gave me this huge smile as I drove up, like, Isn’t this the stupidest? Oh, I loved him so much just then. As we were driving home he said, “I don’t need to get super-strong or anything, I just don’t want to be a pile of mashed potatoes.” 

I said, “I’d say you’re more like a breadstick.”

He said, “It’s only funny the first time, Mom. Mashed potatoes are funny, but breadstick pushes it too far.” 

I said, “But you look like a breadstick, not a pile of mashed potatoes.”

“You don’t get it, Mom,” he said wearily, so I shut up. 

Back home he stretched Camille-like on his bed with a baggie of ice on his forehead. His emerging post-CF routine involves dramatic languor and requests for exemption from chores, which he does not get. Yesterday, he requested a smoothie. I am anti-smoothie. Smoothies are what people ask for when they want to treat their food as fuel, or a health aid, which bums me out. Smoothies are on the spectrum with protein powder dissolved in water and power bars. My anti-smoothie position is silly and irrational and connected in some way to my lack of athleticism, so don’t get defensive. I am happily married to someone who makes smoothies all the time for himself and our kids. 

Yesterday, because I hate exercise as much as he does and know the toll it takes on body and psyche, I agreed to make Owen a smoothie. As it turned out we didn’t have yogurt or bananas, which are vital smoothie ingredients. We did have strawberries, milk and sugar and I said I’d make him a licuado instead. He was suspicious, but enfeebled enough to agree to a licuado.

Have you ever had a licuado? I first drank one in Costa Rica (though it might have had a different name, I don’t remember) when I was an exchange student in high school and I’ve loved them ever since. I love licuados as much as I dislike smoothies. They are the refreshing and pretty milk-and-fruit shake that you might sip while sitting on a bench in the Zocalo and watching the passerby.You would never add algae or flaxseed meal to a licuado.

Here’s how you make a licuado: Put equal parts ice, cold milk, and fresh, hulled strawberries (or cantaloupe, my favorite) into a blender with sugar to taste. If you’re using a cup of ice, a cup of milk, and a cup of fruit, start with a tablespoon of sugar and see how you like it. You might need more, depending on the sweetness of the fruit. Blend until the ice has pulverized and the drink is foamy. Pour into a pint glass.

As it turned out, Owen likes licuados better than smoothies, too. That's my boy. He said, “This should have been in Make the Bread, Buy the Butter.” 

It was one of the nicest things he’s ever said to me. I didn’t thank him, because if I had he would have taken it back.

Mark was out of town so after the licuado restored Owen’s strength, he did some homework and then I made grilled cheese sandwiches and we sat on the sofa with the elderly cat between us and watched Daredevil. I pulled out a couple of Cadbury eggs for dessert. Then I went to my room and slogged through a little War and Peace and he went to his room and read comic books. I made him a licuado this morning for breakfast and I’m picking him up from school so we can go straight to a matinee of Batman vs. Superman. After all, we would both agree that there’s no better way to spend a beautiful, sunny April afternoon than in a dark movie theater. I would probably pick a different movie, but one day soon Owen will stop spending time with me and I will happy for him, but also incredibly sad. Meanwhile, I don’t really care that much what movies we see.