Sunday, April 3, 2011

Happy Suuuuunnnnnndayyyy tooooo youuuuu!

Someone hum the theme from Superwoman, Cho says. We have just finished the first practice of season three. Cho, Amyn, and I are the only veterans to lace up our Sunday morning skates. I’m not sure if I should feel intimidated or excited that a new group of girls outnumbers the vets. We splay onto our stomachs, stretch our arms in front of us, and lift our skates from the dingy floor. We are attempting to hold this pose for two minutes; I can feel the turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, and Christmas cherry pie rolling around in my gut like an errant skate wheel.

There isn’t a Superwoman, BZ replies. She and her girlfriend, Saintly Vicious, have encyclopedic comic book knowledge. I wonder if they quiz each other as they fall asleep. Green Lantern? No, it was the Silver Streak. But there is, she continues, Supergirl.

Well, someone hum the theme from Supergirl, Cho insists. Does she have a theme?

BZ scrunches her face and looks stumped.

Fuck it, I’m just going to hum the Superman theme. Just pretend like it’s Superwoman. Cho pauses. Supergirl. Whatever her name is. We’ve already been holding this banana pose for thirty seconds, so I’m just going to do it.

Cho hums. The song sounds familiar…too familiar to be the Superman theme song. Shit! Cho interrupts herself. That’s Star Wars!

Definitely not Supergirl. Or Superman, I add.

Fine, then, let’s sing “Happy Sunday.” Twice.
Cho's looks flustered as she holds her banana pose. Before the singing commences, Cho rocks her banana back and forth.

Cho and I belt out Happy Sunday to you! Happy Sunday to you! Happy Sunnnnday to yooooouuuu…happy Sunday to you! Cho takes the high harmony. The two of us sound like prepubescent frogs. I notice that none of the others sing along; though most of the girls were not around that ancient Sunday when we initiated the song, Amyn certainly was.

You know I don’t sing that shit, Amyn says with her trademark smirk. You all go right ahead. One of us has to stay sane.

We have been holding the banana pose for two minutes. Maybe more. You know how people say that pain is weakness leaving the body? Cho asks. She deflates from the banana pose, and the rest of us follow. I’m pretty sure for me that pain is ice cream leaving the body. I try not to giggle, but one leaks onto the rink and lands beside a gum wrapper.

Why are you always making fun of me? Cho asks. She throws a wrist guard at my leg. Her wrist guard smells like vinegar, and I’m sure mine smells worse. I don’t say anything; I usually just let Cho keep talking in these circumstances. I told my friend, by the way, Cho continues, that you think I’m the female Michael Scott. He thinks that I should be offended.

Offended? Michael Scott has floated a failing paper company for seven seasons now. I think it’s a compliment.

I sense that I need more than a failing fictional paper company to convince Cho that I find her whimsy and sparkle quite admirable. Well, actually, Blicker and I were saying that you are actually more like Amy Poehler on Parks and Rec. Leslie, that’s her name. She’s smarter than Michael, but still…quirky.

Cho’s mouth curves from a straight line to a semi smile. I sense that she is not quite appeased.

Oh, hell. I just can’t stop myself. But you know? Admitting to me that someone else thinks you should be offended that I call you the female Michael Scott is a very Michael Scott thing to do.

Cho throws her helmet at me. Lovingly, of course.

Amyn rolls her eyes. Lovingly, of course.

Welcome to season three.

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