The first week I was in Korea my co-teacher invited me to the indoor gym. She showed up at my apartment at about eight o'clock in her awesome track suit and woke me up from a sound sleep with what I like to call the-cleaning-lady-knock. This particular ype of knock is very loud and persistent. You are either opening the door or they are comin' in, damn it! I answered the door in shorts and a tank top, bleary eyed. Oh, Sunny said in surprise, were you sleeping? There was no denying it and I nodded. Do you want to go to the gym? she asked, brandishing a sporty-looking bag with racquets sticking out of it. I would love to, I told her, let me just grab my shoes. I threw on a sports bra, socks, and my sneakers, threw my hair up in a pony and jabbed in some bobby pins. Let's do this, I thought as I left the santuary of my apartment.
They tell you at orientation to participate. Don't say no. Take every invitation you're offered. Don't know how to play table tennis? Too bad. Don't want to get naked and swim around at the gymjilbang? Double too bad. Don't want to sing karoake at the noreabang? Well, that's happening. And if you don't drink, start.
I was excited to get invited anywhere, so still groggy, we started walking in the rain to gym. There was one badminton court open and a lot of people playing table tennis. I was handed a racquet and pointed to one side of the court. Sunny served and I smacked the birdie back at her. Immediately I thanked my father for buying a badminton net when I was little. I remember playing on a camping trip and again at home in the yard. Also, I'm naturally athletic, thank god. I was thinking about some of the girls at orientation as I ran around. Some of them might have been struggling...
I mean, I'm athletic. I'm tall and while not in incredible shape, I get by. I've been playing sports since I was six. Soccer two seasons a year from six years old to eighteen. Seven years of basketball, five of track, a short stint in t-ball when I was seven (spent two seasons picking dandelions in the outfield while the coach's kid played first base), four years of varsity lacrosse in college. My hand eye coordination is actually pretty decent (especially from playing goalie in lacrosee) and I've got a good reach if terrible hops.
I'm not used to getting my ass handed to me by a woman in her forties with three kids.
I couldn't help but think of my sister telling me not to bring shame to my people. I didn't have my tennis shoes, only my clunky sneaks and they weigh exactly one pound, eight ounces. Being my heaviest pair of shoes, I wore them on the plane, and now they were loud and heavy on the hardwood as I skidded around to volley and return. I did fine, but when we played later with her husband, I realized she'd been holding back. I was reminded of Brian Regan talking about playing racquetball--You ever play against someone who knows how to land the serve where you never touch it? I mean, is that fun for them? BAM! 1, nothing. Bam! 2, nothing. Bam! 64, nothing.
It was August when I arrived in Korea and though it was raining out, it was still like 90 degrees. It was also a 100 percent humidity. I was sweating on the walk over. Running around in the enclosed gym, the sweat began to drip. In a very literal fashion, I was dripping. Koreans don't have deodrant. That should explain that. While I was soaked, Sunny had a healthy, glistening sheen of sweat on her face, fresh as a spring daisy.
When we finally took a break, Sunny asked, "What's the expression in English? Sweating like a...?"
"That would be 'pig,'" I told her. "The expression is 'sweating like a pig.'"
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