Aiming for a Strike

It had been a decade, so it was time to bowl.

The last time I'd rented shoes and thrown a ball had been with Frank, my Scottish friend, an avid bowler.

He'd teased me about wearing a skirt to bowl, beaten me soundly and made me laugh throughout with bits of Scottish bowling wisdom.

Needless to say, he's the one I'd immediately e-mailed for tips when I'd first been invited on this unlikely outing.

Today's occasion was the birthday of a long-time friend, so I went with another long-time friend and this time I wore a skirt with shorts underneath to save myself the teasing.

But rather than jump right into bad shoes and large balls, we began at Ledo's for chicken wings and a thorough reading of the Washington Post's fall art preview.

Tedious as so much small print can be, it's the only way to ensure that I know about obscure shows while tickets are still available.

But culture only takes you so far when bowling calls, so eventually we had to head to AMF Sunset Lanes for the festivities.

The only people who beat us there were a couple who'd brought their own shoes and balls.

In other words, formidable competitors. Luckily, they were also really nice people.

The two of us got our ugly shoes from the counter and killed time talking until the rest of the party arrived, which they soon did.

One guy I knew from Rose parties, another because, like me, he's a regular at 27 and Ghostprint Gallery, and the rest I was happy to meet.

Make new friends, but keep the old, I always say.

I went and took my hand measurements so I'd know what size ball to get (a medium) and opted for the 9-pounder because it would give me more heft than the 8-pounder.

In what can only be described as a stroke of luck, I was given a hot pink bowling ball that coordinated beautifully with my skirt.

The counter girl insisted my date comment on what a fetching pair my ball and I made, but he's not one to be coerced so the compliment went unsaid.

While listening to a 20th-century playlist -Backstreet Boys, Goo Goo Dolls, Dishwalla- we divided into three teams and I proceeded to demonstrate my lack of bowling skills.

Out of three games, my highest score was 69 (and, yes, I heard the jokes), although I'm happy to report a couple of spares.

Somewhere across the pond, I feel certain Frank is smiling knowing that I did my best and that it was a 69.

I wasn't the only Karen playing, necessitating aliases (mine was Scoop) on the scoreboard and occasional rallying cries of, "Go, Karens!"

It certainly didn't help my bowling ability to hear that chorus coming from behind.

After two hours of bowling, I packed up my socks and we spent half an hour reminiscing about how and when we'd met the birthday boy before his loving girlfriend insisted on taking him home.

It wasn't nearly so difficult to pry me away from the lanes.

If no one's going to comment on my coordinating skirt and bowling ball, I've got better places to be.

And at least a decade to get there.