Ethan and his father took up bowling a few years ago. I thought it would be a passing phase, as I never saw E’s dad as a bowling kind of guy, but it stuck. This year they took me bowling for my birthday. I slid all over the lane in my bowling shoes, accidentally throwing the ball down the aisle, and generally pissing off the old men in the next lane preparing for a very serious league night. Ethan beat us both.
When I was a teenager, my friends and I went bowling every weekend. We’d pile into my car, load up on caffeine and nicotine, and pass the time until curfew at the saddest bowling alley in town. One of my friends, a very dedicated pothead, would smoke before we picked her up and turn into bowlista extraordinaire. With red, squinty eyes and an exaggerated twist of her wrist, she outbowled us all. A strike every time. Being the sore loser that I am, I insisted that once we began to fit in at the bowling alley it was time to give up the sport, thus ending my short affair with bowling.
Today my son has his own bowling ball and an average that sadly bests his parents’.
It only made sense that Ethan requested a party at the bowling alley, thereby ending our annual family-only party. Let be me clear: I’m not too big on other people’s kids, not after the age of one and not before fifteen. But, as always, I worry about the parents. Will we fit in? Will we be snubbed again? Can I finally score Ethan some playmates?
This year I say screw it. It’s my boy’s birthday and if he wants to go bowling, goddammit we’re going bowling.
But part of me is stuck in my childhood birthday anxieties: If we invite them, will they come?