They may not be golf or marathons or sailing, but there are some sports we take very, very seriously. Be afraid.
The Late-cancellation League
Have you ever played a game of cancel chicken with a Midult? Take it on at your peril. It’s like that race on Thunder Road in Grease, except you are not playing for pinks, but rather the MORAL HIGH GROUND. Too early and it looks premeditated. Too late and it’s rude. And remember, if you are cancelled, you have one cancellation in the bank.
The ultimate match: my feet are like hooves, my wax is mid-cycle, my dresses are too sleevey, my roots make me look deranged, my pallor is blinding, all my swimsuits are mouldy, these sandals are too Jesus-y, and so is this beard. Which leads us on to…
The Unexpected-Hair World Cup Chin
hairs, it turns out, are for rookies. Goaty neck hairs raise the game a little. And is that a bit of make-up brush left on my cheek? Oh, Lord – it’s attached. Boob hairs score quite highly, as do long, black big-toe hairs, but not as highly as chest ones. Which you never notice until they’re waving in the breeze.
The Bad-Boyfriend Championship
Hmmm. Well, there was the one who wet himself (and you) in the tent at the festival. That was certainly competitive. Then there was the fat one who said you were fat every single day. That might make the county team. But the one who qualifies you for the Olympic squad had a baby with someone else while you were living together. High five!
My feet are like hooves, my wax is mid-cycle, my roots make me look deranged, all my swimsuits are mouldy
The Grand Snaccident
Any fewer than five biscuits is not even a challenge. AMATEUR. We are talking packets only, please. Multipacks, too. In fact, chocolate on its own will not even qualify – if you use chocolate as a vehicle for something such as ice cream or peanut butter, then we want to hear from you. We are also interested in strange binging habits – like an entire Brie. Or a whole chicken.
The Wardrobe Wars
This contest has degrees: moaning via text to a friend and then floating through the door in some perfectly nice frock is entry level. Turning up to a party in athleisure gear because we couldn’t get dressed in adult clothes is a pro move, but actually refusing to leave the house at all – even cancelling a holiday – and openly blaming your wardrobe gets the rosette every time.
The Online-Shopping Juggle
Four missed-delivery slips, a DPD app on your phone, three vegetable boxes waiting at three different neighbours’, a Net-a-Porter van with a permanent parking place on the street outside your house, and a postman with whom you are so friendly, he gives you money at Christmas. Online shopping is a pentathlon not a sprint.
The Crushing-Commute Contest
This is a high-stakes game. Trains need to be cancelled while you are on them. Your journey has taken you 25 times longer than it should have. You were trapped underground for an hour. A fellow commuter accidentally flicked your contact lens out of your eye, so now you are squinty. And in the lead.
The Holiday Marathon
Holiday, you snort. Holiday? Who has relaxing holidays? The office was constantly calling, and then there were those 15 million emails. Plus there were children there. And other people. And insects. And the beds. And the weather. And the couple getting divorced. Cue…
The Divorce Games
‘Gosh, have you heard so-and-so’s getting divorced?’ ‘I know so many couples who are getting divorced.’ ‘Nearly everyone I know is getting divorced.’ ‘Absolutely everyone I know’s getting divorced.’ ‘I’m getting divorced.’ And on and on, until one or both of you dies.