I’m no athlete, though I can kick the occasional ass in badminton.  My parents hoped for a well rounded, renaissance woman.  And for the most part, I am, all except for the athleticism.  Though I can swim, and I’ve a killer two-handed tennis backhand swing.  My mother forced three years of tennis lesson upon me; don’t worry, no one can tell.  I tried Lacrosse, and played sweeper and stopper on the JV and Varsity soccer teams in high school.  I was even a cheerleader, but don’t be confused, it had nothing to do with coordination, and everything to do with my enormous set of… lungs.  I was a student and an actor, a painter come weekends.  And in the winters, my mother took me to the Country Club to bowl.  Um, yeah.  Surprisingly, it wasn’t nerdy.  Italians aren’t nerds; they’ve got too much testosterone, or hair, to be nerds.  In the summers at my Italian country club I swam, on a team, competing and winning trophies and gold medals.  It was the only sport in which I’ve ever excelled.  But come winter, there was bowling at the clubhouse.

I never “got” people who owned their own ball until Smelly.  My college roommate Smelly is getting married this August.  From impressive invitations to her man, Smelly knows what she wants and gets it.  Smelly is an entertainment attorney with beautiful features, a kind manner, and an honest laugh.  Smelly is a perfectionist with her own bowling ball… or at least she threatened to buy one last time I told her we were headed to Bowlmore Lanes.  Wow, I thought she meant business.  Actually, she meant sanitation.  You couldn’t pay Smelly enough money to use a community ball.  She’d buy her own, and use it once, bag and all, before sticking her fingers on community balls.  Some girls get the rep of “community chest.”  They hop into bed with anyone when they’re drunk.  Smelly is cautious, and wouldn’t hop into anything, and never mind if balls are involved.  I mean, you’re just begging for disinfectant.   Thankfully her fiancé is just as anal, following me around their apartment with an outstretched hand, covered by a napkin.  He probably sleeps with a Dustbuster under his side of the bed; he despises crumbs.  I can’t think of a better match.  So they’re off the market, now, and if they go bowling, it’s not in a league; they’re in a league of their own.

In our busy syndrome lives we face an unavoidable consequence: “we increasingly shun civic or social duties in favor of more solitary pursuits.”  We’re bowling alone.  We watch TV and surf at home rather than participating in collective activities.  Bowling alone was popularized in 1995 by Robert Putnam in an essay titled, “Bowling Alone: America’s Declining Social Capital.”  Putnam believed we’re becoming “increasingly disconnected from our neighbors and communities, leading to the erosion of civil society.  More Americans than ever were bowling, but bowling league participation was down 40 percent since 1980.”

This got me thinking, in this meth-paced world of ours we’re more alone than ever before.  We’ve got online dating services, more luxuries and services to increase efficiency, yet we’re all too busy.  Every time I ask anyone how they are, what’s new, they quip, “Work, busy.  Swamped.  Same old.  Same old.”  We’re so busy we speak machine gun; those complete sentences become obsolete.  We multi-task and background people.  No one wants to feel backgrounded, denied full attention while our friend multi-tasks and offers the occasional “Hmm.  Sounds good.”  They’re instant messaging while you’re crying your life.  We’re isolated, even with friends sometimes.  And you can just forget your neighbors in Manhattan.  I don’t know any of mine, despite my “Good Morning”s and terrific smile.

So I got to thinking, what would they do if I baked brownies (with nuts because that’s the only respectable way, despite all the possible allergies) and introduced myself?  When is the appropriate time to do the stop by, to introduce the brownies and myself?  I mean, I don’t know these people, what if I interrupt their dinner or lovemaking?  What if someone answers his door in his panties?  I’ve seen the people on my floor, and believe me, there’s no possible date… besides, don’t shite where you eat.  This isn’t, I want more friends.  This is, I want to be a neighbor, an active, kind one, who people come to for sugar or a single egg.  I think I’ll do it, despite my hatred for baking.  Hey, you never know, maybe we’ll go to Bowlmore, drink and kick some ass on the alley.  Or maybe I’ll just get more smiles in the elevator.