And so it begins.

Inexplicably, I have once again agreed to sign up for a season of floor hockey. When I think of the sport (and I snicker when I call it a sport), I think of this:

or this:

...not this:

...nor this:

...and certainly not this:

So it surprised me to find out that there are scads of adult floor hockey leagues out there. I figured that our local sports club had included floor hockey as a joke and that the staff must have been flabbergasted when people started signing up to play. Not so. Just Google "floor hockey" and you'll see what I mean. It's everywhere. There are even a number of universities with floor hockey teams. Heck, San Diego has an entire floor hockey league. What's next, competitive jumpsies? Professional hopscotch?

Floor hockey: it's not just for grade school anymore.

This doesn't mean that I feel any more grown up when I pick up a wee plastic stick and run around a primary-school gymnasium for 55 minutes. Except for the huffing and puffing and profuse sweating part. And the aching muscles the following day. That makes me feel old.