Just dig it

For the past several weeks I've played in an indoor volleyball league.  I joined this league for one reason (aside from actually wanting to play volleyball): to meet boys, duh.  Boys like volleyball, I like boys and am good at volleyball, surely something will come of this.  I signed up as an individual and was put on a team, a team which I expected to be half made up of boys.  There were two boys on our team.  Both shorter than me.  Both suck at volleyball.  Ugh.  I set my eyes on our opponents.

Every Sunday for the past month and a half I've had my eyes on the opponents.  Where were all the cute boys?!  Why is it so hard to find a cute boy who has a reliable serve and a decent vertical?  One that's aggressive at the net yet not a ball hog?! One who thinks sporty girls are sexy?! Why can't he have a beard and cute smile, a job and a sense of humor?  Where is he?! Oh, there he is, on the pink team.  Of course we didn't play the pink team until our second to last game.  But oh how glorious that game was.  The pink team was primarily made up of decent looking guys, who are all good at volleyball, who were by far the nicest and most fun team we had played all season.  I was smitten.  I loved the team, but mostly I loved the cute bearded guy.  There was just something about him,  I just wanted to...get him alone.  I was feeling some chemistry between us while both up at the net on our respective sides, so I decided to make conversation.  Cue most random awkward comment.
Me:  Are you guys related?
Him: Which ones?
Me: All of you? (In my defense, they were all around the same height, had similar build and coloring and plus, they were all wearing pink!).
He gives me an adorable puzzled smile.  Then clearly makes up a story of how actually those two are brothers through some sort of insane incest that I couldn't really follow because he's so pretty.  As if an explanation he adds, "they're from the Midwest" right as a ball drops and he playfully accuses me of distracting him (Dude, I'm from the Midwest).  Luckily the game got kind of serious because my next question would have been, "Is anyone in your family taller because I'm a little concerned that our future children might be short."

My team lost, but it wasn't because I was trying to hit on the other team, we really just suck.   Over the course of the week I decided I would ask him out and came up with a plan.   I was going to try get the guys on his team to join forces with the two good girls on mine for next season, and in the meantime ask him out to drinks.  I got my girls to agree to it.  My evil plan was working.  Until it didn't.  At all.

They played before us, so when they were done and only three people on my team were present, I invited them to play with us.  Perfect.  I casually discussed next season with them while figuring out how they know each other (they grew up together outside of Boston, so they're practically related) and throwing in random unfiltered thoughts, "I've had Ghetto Superstar stuck in my head all day."  (Good one, Grayer, good one.  Though it did make the cute one laugh (sense of humor: check!).  On a sidenote: I think I'm becoming a socially awkward scientist).   Things were going swimmingly until the rest of my stupid team showed up, at which point they were no longer needed and headed out, before I was able to seal the deal.  They high-fived me goodbye and I watched them wistfully leave the gym while I had to play the stupid game. I wouldn't be there next week for the final game.  I was watching my future husband/father of my vertically-challenged children, walk away.  What was I supposed to do, leave my game to run after him and ask him out for drinks?  That's pathetic.  I played the rest of the game pissed off.  My serving got better.

My one shining hope was that playoffs would be next week and although I'd be on vacation, my two girls would be there.  I had dinner with them after the game and drilled into their head their single objective of next week.  Seal the deal with the pink team, by using all means necessary, preferentially means of giving the cute one my number.  There.  It was in their hands now.  Until it wasn't.  At all.

My team sucked.  We didn't make the playoffs.  The pink team did but my girls wouldn't be there to seal the deal or give him my number.  It seems as though as quickly as he came in, the cute bearded boy is gone from my life.  Goodbye, my almost lover (and by almost lover I mean I did know exactly three things about you, one of which was your first name, yet I find that completely substantial criteria to become lovers).  Insert: Sad face.

All I can do now is move forward.  It's time to mend this broken heart.  I'm currently trying to stuff a week's worth of clothing into a carry-on sized suitcase.  This would be a breeze if I were going someplace warm.  That's what sane people do.  They go warm places in March.  I'm not sane.  I'm going to Montana.  The weird thing is, I can't freakin' wait.  It's been a hard winter for me in Boston but now I'm actually excited to frolic in the snow with my two best friends, one of which is currently living there.  I have exactly two goals for this trip: 1. Learn to snowboard and 2. make out with a ski/snowboard instructor.  Not necessarily in that order.