Typical Day
The chickadee is a bird species of the Paridae family, which is objectively one of the cutest bird families of all time. Everything about them is irresistibly (and scientifically?) adorable, from their plush little mini-bodies to the way they chirp. Unless, of course, it's 5:55AM and you're Larissa Netsky.
Larissa spent all last night partying with her college's lacrosse teams. Turns out, the stereotypes were true: lax bros and broettes definitely know how to party.
Larissa had somehow managed to tune out the screeches of that annoying chickadee outside her bedroom window, but her entire cheek had become soaked in a pool of drool while she was sleeping.
Just as she wipes her mouth in preparation for more sleep, her phone alarm goes off. She groans, flails, and wails, but it doesn't matter. The day has to start.
Larissa gets dressed and grabs a bagel on her way out the door. She tries her best to not slam it shut, but let's be honest. Larissa was too tired to care.
All but Larissa and a flock of cheerful chickadees were still asleep. Sigh. Being awake on a Saturday morning should be illegal. Larissa rubs the sleep off her face and attempts to stuff the bagel in her mouth. She misses and hits her eye.
"Oh," Larissa says, completely nonplussed by her extreme lack of hand-eye coordination. She fights the urge to crawl back into bed and begins to stumble-jog to the East Field House. If anyone were awake to see her, they would have told her that Walking Dead called, and they wanted their zombie back.
Larissa made it to the locker room without any trouble—no eye-poking and no dazed apocalypse survivors trying to attack her. Mission accomplished. As usual, her stumble-jog did her good: blood's pumping, adrenaline's coursing, and now, she can eat her bagel without any issues.
Larissa used to be a bit of a loose cannon on the lacrosse field. Per Coach Cradler's instructions, she now spends ten minutes doing controlled breathing (and eye-rolling) and fifteen minutes holding her arms out like Frankenstein's monster while kicking at her hands. She always feels weird doing this last one, but Coach Cradler had insisted. At least it gives her a lot of time to think…and dwell.
Back in her teen years, Larissa played lacrosse with the boys to get her anger and frustration out. Her parents had split up and she was going back and forth between houses. Lacrosse with the boys was what kept her from hurting someone. On the field, at least.
In high school, she was a legend with an average of three points per game…but she had a little problem with yellow cards. That is, she had no problem getting them. The only time her team lost was when she was banned from playing, but that didn't stop her from getting a scholarship.
She entered college as a terrific center, but the transition didn't go so well; her grades suffered and her gameplay was uneven. Basically, life sucked. Larissa's relationship with the team was strained. (Body checks, after all, aren't legal in women's lacrosse.) She contemplated disguising herself as a boy and joining the men's team, but she decided against it. That stuff only works in movies.
"Look, Larissa," Coach Cradler had told her a month back. "You're no doubt our best player. You're fast and you're accurate, but you can't win by yourself. Lacrosse is a team sport."
Larissa agreed, but there was little she could do. Luckily, Coach Cradler was not as dumb as he looked. (But really, could his shorts be any shorter?)
"You have so much rage and negative energy," he continued. "Either you give these meditation techniques a chance, or we revoke your scholarship," he warned. "Cross you off the list, just like that. Done like a turkey. Bada bing, bada boom." Okay, Coach. We get it.
Larissa had already been in danger of losing her scholarship, so she nodded politely even though she thought all that "energy" talk was cheesier than the bottom of a Nacho Cheese Doritos bag.
Back in the locker room, Larissa takes a deep breath through her nose and exhales through her mouth. The soothing twang of a sitar echoes in the empty room. Ah, the Beatles' experimental phase. Classic. She feels the muscle fatigue from yesterday's practice (and partying) evaporating. No IcyHot required.
In Larissa's head, she scoops up the ball, twirls around the left defensive wings, leaps over the opposing team's pointguard, and launches that sorry little rubber ball right into the netted enclosure. The goalie knew better than to interfere. She's Larissa Netsky, after all.
And the crowd goes wild.
Larissa then pictures the pulpy remains of the opposing team and laughs maniacally. This is a daily habit of hers. She had always thought it helped her game and made her a better athlete. In reality, it's the reason her teammates were planning an intervention.
As usual, the tingle of pre-practice anticipation hinders Larissa's ability to concentrate. She wants so badly to release the kraken, but she can't. She needs to keep her scholarship by…aligning her chakras. Whatever that means.
Larissa finally mellows out. She feels new, refreshed…tender, even. Like a newly ripe avocado in its prime, perfect for guacamole. Her teammates start to trickle into the locker room. Larissa awakens from her stupor as her stomach rumbles. "Clif bar time," she whispers to herself as she reaches for her duffel bag.
On the field that day, Larissa was more confident and focused. She stopped elbowing people and covered more ground. Dangerous propelling: zero. Checks to the head: zero. Yellow cards: zero. A new record.
Victory was nearer than it had ever been. The team dug the new Larissa and considered the intervention canceled. Hey, who doesn't like not getting pummeled?
Back in her head, Larissa fed the ball to first home, and she looked up at the roaring stands. Her father was on the right, with his second wife. Her mother was on the opposite end with Larissa's younger brother. And all of them were cheering her on.
Larissa beamed with pride. "No, this is cheesier than the bottom of a Nacho Cheese Doritos bag."