So yesterday I tried bubble soccer for the first time. A new concept to me personally, I have only heard about it a few weeks ago, but it sounded interesting enough to jump on the opportunity, not to mention the feeling of safety conveyed by the word “bubble”. Seriously, add “bubble” to anything and I bet anyone would be willing to try it no matter how cautious and unadventurous they were. Bubble mountain climbing, bubble sky diving, bubble shark swimming, you name it. (Actually after naming them I’m ot so sure, but bubbles are cozy, you get the idea.)
I went with a group of family and friends, we were split into two teams, the blue team and the red team – I was in the blue team. There were two sizes of bubble to choose from depending on your height and physique, so it was kind of unfair when you, wearing a small bubble and struggling to move, got hit by a bulldozer coming your way in the form of a giant red bubble. However, and the fun of it is, it doesn’t matter. Once you get the first hit and even fall down you realize: You’re inside a bubble, you can take all the knocks you have time for and fall down as many times as you have to. It’s beautiful, really.
The first game we played was good old football. Of course, being inside your bubble means you’re partially visually impaired with limited mobility. As soon as I heard the whistle I saw an army of circle shaped objects stuffed with people running everywhere. I started running aimlessly as I couldn’t see the ball anyway, and the next thing I knew I was on the ground and my shoe came off. Of course when it’s your first fall your hands are already full with the challenge of getting up, so a flying shoe is adding insult to injury. Thankfully though, the shoe was close enough that it wasn’t a problem. Anyway, we played football for 12 minutes, and we, the blue team were victorious.
For the second game each team had to choose one of the teammates as a “King”, and just like in chess, his teammates had to protect him while the other team tried to knock him down. We played 3 rounds, we won the first round, and the second, and in the third they said we had to choose a “Queen”, which means a girl must be chosen, and since our team had only me and a slender, fragile-looking 17 year-old, so it had to be me, despite not being so steady on my feet, especially after being knocked down more times that I had counted during the previous games. But, thankfully we had a good defense and our team managed to knock their queen down before they could get to ours, and we won again.
The last game was Sumo wrestling. I was up first, my opponent was a irl my height but she couldn’t have weighed much more than 40 kilos so I thought: “I can take her down.” Somehow though she pushed me out of the ring, which was pathetic, and surprising. Well, maybe she had more willpower. In my defense, I hadn’t slept in 3 days. What was even more pathetic is that she herself was eliminated next by the aforementioned fragile 17 year-old, who was her sister by the way. I guess you could ever guess how these things will turn out, but of course the final winner was one of the big tall guys, the strong eating the weak, there was little use for wits on the playground, it was all bone and muscle. The winner was one of the red team, for a change.
It was a fun experience, but thinking about it later on made me think of the other metaphorical bubbles we wrap ourselves inside in life. They are not that different. They shield you from people, they make you more resistant to life knocks which might make you think you’re stronger than you really are, and most importantly: they are exhausting. They make it hard to breathe, and you know you’re better off without them. And you know you can’t stay in your bubble forever, but you also know it’s a good resort from time to time.
For more info on bubble soccer in Amman visit: https://www.facebook.com/ATeam.JO?fref=photo
اليوم كنت في زيارة لروضة بنت أختي لحضور احتفال، أو مسابقات، أو أياً كان اسم الفعالية. رجل يقوم بحركات طفولية ساخرة لإضحاك الأطفال، لو شفته بالشارع مستحيل تتخيل إنه شخص بهذا المظهر الرتيب ممكن يركض وينط بهاي الطريقة، وبتشوف شو ممكن يعمل الإنسان عشان لقمة العيش. وواحد تاني لابس بدلة “بينك بانثر” أنا عن نفسي خفت منها واستغربت كيف ولا واحد من الأطفال انصرع وصار يصرخ أو حاول يهرب. والأطفال مبسوطين وبزقفوا وبرقصوا مع البينك بانثر وضحكهم موصل للسما، وهاد أهم إشي
بعد شوي الرجل اللي بقدم الحفلة سأل الأطفال مين بحب يغني. طبعاً مش غريب إنه ولا طفل طلع غنى أغنية إلها دخل بالطفولة زي ما كان الوضع على أيامنا، يعني بدل “ماما وبابا بحبوني” و”أنا إبريق الشاي” مثلاً سمعنا أغاني مثل “إنت معلم” و”إنت باغية واحد”.0
لكن اللي خلاني شبه أتشنج هو طفلة متحمسة طلعت مسكت الميكروفون وصارت تغني “متل الطلقة الروسية، إذا ما قتلتي بتشلي”. سيبك من الطفولة الضائعة، الأغنية هاي عندي مشكلة معها من زمان. الأغنية هاي طلعت في عز الحرب/الأحداث/الثورة في سوريا (ضع دائرة حول المصطلح الذي يناسب توجهك السياسي). كل ما كنت أسمعها بعرس خاصة كانت تيجيني حالة اشمئزاز من المستوى اللي وصلناله فنياً وإنسانياً، تمسحنا بالمرة لدرجة إنه صرنا نتغنى بالرصاص اللي عم بنقتلوا في ناس على أرض الواقع. قلة احترام لدم الشهداء والضحايا اللي انقتلوا وانشلوا بطلقات روسية، في وضع إقليمي حساس وبيغلي أصلاً
البنت الصغيرة صارت تغني “الطلقة الروسية”، وفي بالي نطت صورة أطفال مرعوبين تحت القصف، وأطفال مسحوبين مع الموج، وقدامي أطفال بيضحكوا وبزقفوا، وفكرة وحدة: إنه هاد الإشي اللي المفروض أطفال بهالعمر يكونوا بيعملوه. وفجأة بتصيبك حالة انفصام، ورهاب من إنك تفتح الفيسبوك أو تويتر عشان ما تشوف الصورة السودا الكبيرة، وبتقرر للحظة تسكر كل حساباتك وتنقطع عن العالم الخارجي لأنه الصورة المصغرة أحلى بكتير، الصورة الصغيرة فيها أطفال ماسكين سطولة وبركضوا عشان يلموا فيها طابات، ونمر وردي عملاق بالنص، أما الصورة الكبيرة ففيها أطفال بركضوا عشان يهربوا من سطولة ضخمة نازلة من السما، وأسد مش وردي بتفرج من بعيد، وفجأة بدون سابق إنذار بشتغل صوت شاعر في راسك: “أدري بأنك لا تخاف الطفل حياً… إنما أدعوك صدقاً.. أن تخاف من الصغار الميتين”0
*** هذا البوست عبارة عن تخبط محض، سامحونا عالركاكة
Birthdays: Annual occasions where you celebrate not being hit by a car or shot at a wedding by some idiot for yet another year. Congratulations, you might not be the fittest but you survived anyway.
However, after a certain age birthdays cease to be mere merry occasions, they turn into panic attacks: What have I achieved in my 30 years on earth? When am I going to save some money? I’m never going to find love! My husband forgot my birthday, 3 years of marriage down the drain. Children! I need to have children before it’s too late. Who took my charger? I made it clear I don’t want anyone taking my charger. No, I’m not overreacting, YOU are overreacting! Hand me that popcorn. What? I’m not crying, I’m just overflowing with fulfillment. Sniff. TICK-TOCK, TICK-TOCK…
But it doesn’t have to be that dramatic, and don’t pretend it’s not. There’s always some after-party drama when everyone goes home and you’re alone with your gifts and leftover cake. And you’d be totally justified in taking that plunge into the self-pity, life-loathing pool; it’s completely understandable and okay, as long as you’re avoiding people and sharp objects.
But again, it doesn’t have to be that bad, not because “age is just a number”, make no mistake, age is a number and one that makes a difference, so let’s do away with that denial-drenched mentality and say it like it is. If you’re 30, that means you’re no longer 20, and everything is not the same. However, it doesn’t have to be all that different. It’s not like when you turn 30 you’ll gain weight uncontrollably or start shedding skin. Yes, your complexion might not look as fresh as a 21 year-old – unless you’re spending a small fortune on skin care products or have a very good surgeon- but you will still look beautiful, and you will still be able to do everything you used to do in your twenties. Honestly, I couldn’t think of anything you could do in your twenties that you couldn’t do in your thirties, not even running like a lunatic down the street or crying while watching Twilight. If you can do that in your twenties then chances are you can do it at any age, because you’re probably crazy, or a moron, and you will always have a streak of that and will, hopefully, grow up to be that crazy grandma with a purple hat/scarf who everyone loves.
My point is, don’t deny age, make peace with it.
I for one have made my peace with it, mostly because my choices are limited, you know, it’s grow older or die. And it really doesn’t matter as much after you hit 30. It becomes a chance to reevaluate yourself and the important things in your life, what’s been achieved so far, what needs to be done, what’s missing. A day to be thankful for the people you have around you on this very day – not only because of the cake and gifts- but most importantly for taking the time and the effort to be there and to make you feel extra special on this one day of the year, without getting a hint from Facebook.
It’s also a time for disappointments, which are an inevitable part of the circle of life, but it’s also a time to deal with them, reconsider things, put your life in order, reset and start a new, or simply resume, whatever floats your boat.
The amount of love I felt today almost equals the amount of sugar I consumed.
Happy sweet 16 plus 15 to me, it was definitely a good one