So, my husband suggests we play a game of croquet. I haven’t played in years, and seldom by the official rules, but what the heck. I knew I could kick his butt with one mallet tied behind my back. Why?
When I was a child, my brothers and I devised our version of croquet called, “Maso-croquet.” It was sooo much fun. We’d set up the course to run around the lawn and into the barnyard. I think we were using two or three sets of wickets, and additional ones we devised on our own from wire. We needed a lot. Sometimes the placement of the wickets was so detailed and bizarre we’d forget where we put them. The lawnmower usually found them at a later date, but I digress. To give an example: a wicket would be placed going uphill, about a foot from the trunk of a large tree with many exposed tree roots, and with rocks in the way. Our games could last for hours because getting through the course was practically an act of God.
The Croquet course on which my husband wanted to challenge me was the basic figure eight– on a level lawn no less. Boring! How could I not rip his ego to shreds given my past training?
What happened you ask? Is he now a mere shell of a man curled in a fetal position? No. He creamed me two games in a row. What is even a greater insult, I saw him intentionally missing shots in a desperate hope I might catch up. What the heck? Who is this swinger with the big mallet? Learning to be humble…it was the best part of my day.