Tuesday, January 24, 2006


What didn't I do this weekend? I attended no cultural events. I did not hang out with the popular, the famous, nor the fabulous crowd. I did not spend the weekend in all the best clubs to be seen, or to dance. I did not have amazingly kinky, amazingly vanilla, nor amazingly mind-blowing sex with two, three, four, or a room full of people. I did not go sky-diving, nor DJ, nor travel to an exotic local. I did not see Jake Gyllenhaal naked (shameless search engine seeding which I stole from someone else, sorry).

So what did I do this past weekend? Since Thursday, all of my time has been involved with what I do for a living. I was writing code. Fabulously exciting, no? Well to most of you no, but I am a geek and I get a real rush out of it. It's what I love to do and I get a real sense of creativity and accomplishment. I have often spent hours and hours at home slaving over code.

So that's what I did this weekend. Until Sunday. When the BF said it was time to get off of my ass (and that is a direct quote) and do something physical. Of course I thought that meant that the shades would be closed, candles lit, and Barry White on the cd player. I should know better by now. He didn't tell me what he had planned, but he told me just to throw on jeans and a t-shirt, and off we went. To the park. Where his friends were. Playing football.

For the first half hour or so I was actually having fun. It felt good to be out, and getting fresh air. And being around a lot of testosterone was doing wonders for my psyche. Until I made the mistake. I caught the ball. I started to instinctively run. I was on top of the world. I had the ball and I was the star receiver heading down the field for an amazing touchdown. I knew exactly what little victory dance I was going to do once I crossed the line that was our makeshift goal. I could hear the roar of the crowd as I ran! I was pumped! I was in The Zone! I was knocked unconscious.

I'm going to spare you the agonizing details of what it feels like to not be able to breathe. Nor am I going to explain the excruciating pain it is to have your shoulder put back into its socket.

There I am, feeling the closest to death I have ever come and survived, not sure if I should throw up everything I have eaten in the last 24 hours, or whether to just pass out from pain and exhaustion. And one of his friends, one of his early-twenties-friends, says loud enough for me to hear, "I hope I'm never in that bad shape when I get old like him".

If I had had the strength, it would have been justifiable homicide.