Why my name is not 'Grace'

Ok, rather than chug along and finish "Smashed" on Saturday night, I decided that I would attempt to be a much cooler person than I actually am, and go out with my friends bowling. At the best of times, I'm happy when I score above 80, but after this past Saturday, I think all future expectations will be considerably lower. To this very moment, I still have no idea how it happened. The best explanation I can come up with is that the ball must have taken me with it on the first few feet of its journey toward the pins, because before I knew it, I was sprawled, hands splayed on the oily pine lane like Bambi's first time on ice; my hands sliding around furiously as I attempt to prevent actually landing face-first in the disgusting lane. I had no idea how gross those lanes were. When I finally (and I mean finally) am able to get to my feet and make my mortified way to my laughing 'friends,' my hands are covered with a delightful sludge of oil and what I assume to be dust or some equally repulsive black substance. Being the shower at least once a day person that I am, my embarrassment is tempered only with the immediate need to wash my hands. It is only later that I realize that my ankle hurts. I suck it up after I whine some to my friends and get another drink, when it occurs to me that I might have actually hurt myself. Sure enough, when we get to Josh & Megan's and go to apply the ace bandage, what is normally a golf ball sized protrusion, has become more akin to a tennis ball. What was a dull ache, has become a hobbling throb. Luckily, by that time my friends had lost their sarcastic quotation marks and were lovely. Emi even overcame her revulsion of feet to wrap my foot with her professional nurse knowledge. Ah, bowling, that strenuous sport. I think I shall avoid you in the future.