Zaza plays badminton

I like to succeed at everything I do. All joking aside, I am normally quite talented and smart, not to mention able to hold my own in athletic competitions. I was thinking this the other day as I walked to my badminton class.
Why badminton, you might ask. I am asking that myself. The first two classes weren't that bad, we just went over rules and how to hold the racket and whacked the shuttle around a bit. But the third class..... the day started out bad because I had to walk to school in the snow. With four inches of slush on the side of the road I decided to wear my gortex hiking boots. And then to avoid the whole wet pantlegs thing, I wore capris that ended just above my boots. And a t-shirt and a sweater and a coat, the works.
The class started badly with a rules quiz that I only knew the answers for half of. Then we set up the nets and I was paired up with three other students for a game of doubles. Three other experienced, athletic students.
The game commenced with me realizing the t-shirt I'd put on had shrunk in the wash and showed my stomach. I elected to keep my sweater on so I wouldn't get kicked out of the gym for indecent exposure. (Hey, going to a mennonite school is no picnic).
Then it happened. I couldn't hit the birdie. I stood there like an absolute idiot, swinging my racket for all I was worth at this stupid little piece of plastic, and after 5 or 6 tries I got it to plop over the net and land out of bounds.
"Good job, Heather!" My teammates were very encouraging.
Every time it was my turn to serve, I could see everyone relaxing and taking a breather, knowing that I wouldn't be able to get it over for a good 5 minutes. They had those pleasant smiles on their faces that you see on parents at their kids piano recitals. Keep up the good work, Heather! Oh, it almost made it over that time! Way to go! Have another try at serving! Re-serve! Re-serve again! Okay, why not have a third try?
And then I slipped on a bit of water on the floor and went flying.
By then I was sweating so much I desperately wanted to get rid of my sweater, but the instructor had stopped to watch my progress and was lingering at the side of our court.
The birdie still wouldn't go over the net. I swear, there was something wrong with it.
By the end of the class the president of the badminton club suggested I come to the remedial practice sessions on sunday afternoons, because if I couldn't learn to serve, I would fail the badminton skills test and I would fail the course and fail university and fail at life. (Actually he didn't say ALL of that, but I could feel it.)
Then a cute guy walked by and seeing my hiking boots, asked with a smirk, "So, are those your non-marking gym shoes?"
I looked down and realized how ridiculous they looked with my socks creeping up and the capris showing a full inch of ankle.
When my teammate walked by and told me I was making progress, I almost threw my racket at her head.
So things are quite desperate, really. If I don't learn how to serve before the skills test, I might as well drop out of school and get a job at McDonalds.
You might wonder about the Zaza. That is kind of related.
Alpha was reading a baby names book out loud. Guess where Heather was? In the list for natural elements, along with names like Rock, Wind, Grass and Winter.
Ridiculous. Who ever heard of a world-class badminton player named Rock? I decided to choose a name from the 'sexy and glamorous names' list; which is why I am making my family call me Zaza now.
I can picture myself next week on the badminton court, with a stylish little white tennis skirt, making the birdie soar over the net and the president of the badminton club congratulating me and asking me if I would tutor him in badminton and I would say, "actually, I'm too busy being glamorous for that. Try someone else."
Except for the fact that they don't wear little white tennis skirts for badminton. Oh well. Maybe I can start with full length pants.