I have agreed to go bowling after a 15-year hiatus from the lanes.

The lanes didn’t miss me; they didn’t even know I was gone. It’s not like I was burning them up 15 years ago in some kind of bowling heyday. That’s simply how long it’s been since I laced up a pair of red and blue suede shoes and chucked a 14-pound marble at some pins.

(You can gauge the level of my bowling IQ by my use of the words “marble” and “chucked.”)

Obviously, bowling has never been my thing.

Oh, I gave it a go, back in the day. I was even in a league during my early 20s, though the main objective of my team (aptly named “Whose Turn Is It?”) was to wear vintage bowling shirts and consume multiple pitchers of beer. Scores, much less averages, were incidental, but I rarely broke 100.

As a young parent, I took my kids on the occasional Saturday for a round of bumper bowling, an ingenious innovation in which inflated guards are placed in the gutters, guaranteeing tots a few chicken scratches on their scorecards.

Sadly, bumpers did not improve my performance. In fact, the last time I remember bowling, I pitched the ball in frustration with such force, it blew right under the bumper into the gutter next door. The kids were more impressed than the foul-mouthed, unholy rollers in the neighboring lane.

Let’s just say I was never invited back.

I am bowling today for my husband’s sake. He has been nagging me to join him in a recreational activity, something we can do together – now and in the future. He’s apparently realized that “till death do us part” is a tall order without a hobby to pass the time.

“Anyone can bowl, even you!” he said, which immediately bolstered my confidence and sense of cooperation.

Bowling IS the No. 1 participatory sport in the country. And since golf is out of the question due to the hours it takes to play and my refusal to golf in any weather except 70 degrees and partly cloudy with a steady breeze, I said, “Yes. For better or for worse, I will bowl with you.”

So here I stand in Lane 14, ready for my approach. My first thought: Thank heaven the neighboring lanes are empty. My second: When I lower the ball to the hardwood, will the seams of my pants split under the strain?

I line up, take four steps, release the ball and follow through.

“Good form!” my husband cries, in a pathetic attempt at positive reinforcement.

Minutes later, or so it seems, the ball nicks one pin on the far right side. It tips over with a ‘ka-plink!’

I retreat back to the table and wait for my ball to return. The automatic score keeper inserts a “1” in my box on the computer screen.

My second ball, a drastically overcorrected version of the first, manages to take out one pin on the far LEFT side. “Ka-plunk!”

A “2” posts on the automated scorecard, hanging overhead for all to see.

Great, I say to myself. Private torment AND public humiliation. My score is probably going out over the Internet as we speak. Next, someone will put the video on YouTube.

Now I remember why I don’t bowl. Because, pardon my idiom, I suck eggs!

Just as I’m about to inform my betrothed that the vows may have said “sickness and health” but NOWHERE did they mention “mortification and pain,” he gets up to take his turn.

With long strides and a huge backswing, he hurls the ball down the lane. The pins – all 10 of them – explode into the air with a CRASH!

A lone spectator in the back mutters, “Whoa.”

My husband pivots around on one foot, trying to be subtle. I haven’t seen him smile that big since he trapped a mole in the backyard.

Suddenly, I realize that bowling is a way for him to unleash his pent-up frustration. Frustration caused, in some measure, by me. This isn’t about a shared hobby. This is therapy. And at nine bucks an hour, it’s a lot cheaper than marriage counseling.

I hop up to take my turn, wondering how much my own pair of bowling shoes would cost. I throw my ball directly into the gutter. But I’m not upset.

I’ve got plenty of time to bring up my average: “Till death do us part.”