I hate bowling. Bowling shoes should be enough reason for me to love the sport, but I hate bowling balls with a fiery passion. The ones that fit my fingers are intended for incredibly small children, and the ones that are heavy enough inevitably wind up being hurled backwards toward my lane-mates. True story. Sorry, Carla.
So when I was told earlier this year that my good friend's going-away party was being held at a bowling alley, I balked. I promised myself I wouldn't bowl. Of course, I was badgered into it by the lovely and talented Trisha.
Between my pathetic attempts at hitting at least one pin and avoiding maiming any of my friends, I chose to lean against the counter to talk with the rest of the group. Due to the loudness of the bowling alley, this required a little bit of bending in order to be on their level to hear them.
Midway through one particular conversation, my Spidey senses tingled. I turned and saw a man one lane over leaning back in his chair, hands laced behind his head. His gaze was roughly at butt-height.
His head-to-toe inspection would've been successful if I hadn't turned around halfway through and rudely interrupted. In spite of this, he decided to continue the view all the way up to my "really?!" face.
I didn't appreciate his approach.
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