Pelotas. Or was it cojones?

Lately I have been thinking a lot about balls.

All kinds of balls: actual, golf, sweaty, middle-aged, blue, old, soccer, of fire, Ed, basket, juggling, racket, young, billiard, in a vice... You know what I'm getting at.

To put it succinctly, all sorts of balls in all sorts of situations.

This mind-meander didn't come about solely because for some reason I was reminded of the first discussion I ever had with my very first American friend: I brought up tennis balls shriveling up underneath snow if you accidentally left them out for the winter, and she giggled. That cemented our friendship. And taught me about American sense of humor.

I also wasn't thinking about balls only because yesterday, as I was driving home from the hairdressers, I was driving behind this beauty. Almost the whole way.

The Blue Bulls of rugby have Blue Balls. Which is also some sort of illness. I think. But so is rugby.

These balls here have somewhat of a hypnotic quality. Right? Or I'm just mesmerized by balls gently swaying.

Really, could go either way.

I have also been thinking about balls, simply due to the sheer number of them, some sweatier than others and all varying shades of red, I seem to have thrown up in the air. Without really realizing what I was doing, and how many exactly there were in the end.

So far, I haven't dropped any, or lost track of any (or at least most) of them. There are some that might have exponentially grown in size from when I initially threw them up there and which might very well break my back and other assorted bone-y parts of me when they finally come back down. And then there are some that were thrown in the mix by other people, when I wasn't paying attention. But really, I threw most of them up in the air because I felt like it, and I guess I was missing some excitement and some deadlines. Without actually remembering what that really meant.

Anyhoo, I really must cut down on wine crawling the web, and keep better track of the balls I handle, since Some of them I would really, really hate to drop. But I will be back in you comment boxes and IMing drunk as a whole litter of skunks and all of their cousins too, before you know it. And swearing like a sailor. And confusing your blog with someone else's. And making obscure biblical (and really from the Hitchiker's Guide to the Galaxy) references. And spelling poorly. And... Don't you miss me already?

The lesson for today: After handling sweaty or otherwise wet/dirty/greasy/burnt/oozing balls use your right hand, so that your brand new, immaculately white golf-glove doesn't become tarnished. Since abstaining from golf is neither a viable, nor credible option, simply use proper protection, and you'll be fine.

(Okay. I lied. I haven't really been thinking about Ed Balls, a British Labour Party politician. I didn't know he existed until I for some obscure reason [all of the above] earlier today found myself Googling balls. But I like his name. And yes, I refuse to make any joke-y reference to poor Caster Semenya. The poor girl doesn't have any balls, just the testosterone.)

Also, since I do love reader-participation, encourage it wildly, and really appreciate your comments, tell me: How are your balls today? Neatly in the air, on fire, tightly in a vice, tucked away, or completely absent?  Let me know, my stress would love some ballsy company right about now.