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:
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.