Wednesday, July 23, 2014

Damn You, Dalton Rosenberg

Text I received this afternoon: “Remember our friend ******? I just walked in my house and she’s on the floor spooning with some guy. And she’s being the big spoon. I’ll send her over to you next so you can get your little spoon fix.”
                 
First of all, who the heck spoons on the floor, a floor with really ugly carpet nonetheless? Second of all, what girl in the history of her gender who is either A. shorter than 6½ feet tall or B. not a recipient of any type of NCAA scholarship to throw a javelin, discus, or shot, what girl in her right mind that doesn’t fall in either of those categories has ever consented to be the big spoon when two people decide to C-word?

Cue blank stares of silence because you can’t think of a single one.

For full effect, download “Have You Ever Seen The Rain” by Creedence Clearwater Revival and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post.

A few years back I took a weekend trip out to a cabin in the middle of nowhere with a random group of friends. We ate, we laughed, we wrestled in living rooms, and we played badminton. We played badminton for crying out loud kids. You can’t have a better weekend when you’re hitting a feathered shuttlecock back and forth between each other. As the night faded on we decided it would be best if we paired off in a rather sexist way and had a showdown guys vs. girls. Mano e womano. Twigs and berries vs. funbags.

Jess: “So what do you want to bet on this?”

Me: “That you will lose?”
                 
Jess: “If that’s the way you want to think of it, then yeah.”

Me: “Do you know who you’re challenging?”

Jess: “Some guy with a badminton racket.”

Me: “Not just some guy with a badminton racket, you’re talking to the badminton champion of Rod Bockwoldt’s 8th grade seventh period P.E. course at Roy Junior High. (For the record, I was never actually the badminton champion, I was the runner up. My skills in badminton only increased when that chumpsucker bully Dalton Rosenberg angrily whacked me in the butt multiple times with his racket during a match because I missed a shot. This led to me purchasing a personal badminton racket and shuttlecock and practicing in the backyard when the rest of my gym mates were out huffing potpourri.)

Damn you, Dalton Rosenberg.

Jess: “Alright, so put your money where your mouth is, what’s on the line?”

After examining and not being disappointed by the jelly donut hanging around my fellow teammate’s belly, and likewise surveying the potential physical action that might be created with two very attractive girls on the opposite side of the net, I threw out the one thing I could get that would lead me to eternal happiness, my long sought after crown that I had never grasped. My holy grail, my great white buffalo, my figurative girl with a yellow umbrella.

Me: “Alright, if we win, we shall receive an hour of solid C-wording.”

Jess: “Cuddling? That’s it?” (For the record, girls can say cuddling in dialogue, men cannot.)

Me: “I am not finished! This C-wording must be performed with you ladies playing the role of the big spoon.”

Somewhere a bolt of lightning hit the ground and a crow let out its caw to the world for a more dramatic effect.

Jess: “Are you serious?”

Me: “As a Republican.”

Jess: (shaking her head) “Alright, I guess this is a big-time wager. We’ll just take dinner at Olive Garden when we win.”

And with that the feather shuttlecock was launched over the net and the battle of the sexes began. Ten minutes later and the girls were shaking their heads in disbelief as a jelly donut and a 6’5” giant with potential psychological issues stemming from physical abuse as a child from Dalton Rosenberg, stood victorious on the badminton court, champions in the battle of the sexes for the ultimate prize of not having to play the role of someone’s backpack while engaging in a mild version of physical intimacy. 

Now you may be laughing at this turn of events, in fact I certainly hope you are. I’m not sure if it is the story in its entirety, that I can’t say the C-word and still feel like a man, or the fact that you have now read the word shuttlecock four times. Regardless of all of that, this has been a rather amusing tale that you have spent four and a half minutes reading and hopefully has put a smile back on your face. 

But brace yourself, because here is where I bring in the sadness to this entire chronicle: I never got to be the little spoon.

I know. Totally not cool.

You see, once the match was over and the ladies tucked their tails between their legs, it finally hit me that I would now have the privilege of not having to be the wrapping paper of a spoonage session. And so after the night had died down, once dinner was over and we were all lingering into the front room for some after hours entertainment on a 16-inch black and white television, I conveniently placed myself on the love sack, just waiting for their surrounding cuppage.

And the sad part was, it never happened.

Ok I lied, maybe it did happen, but for only like five minutes and then Jess got up and grabbed some Oreos and said she was tired or something, so I never really got to feel what it was truly like to be the little spoon.

It’s not fair. That’s all I can say. It’s not fair that I will forever be cursed to play the role of the human turtle shell. It’s not fair that my friend got to witness some random guy having the privilege of role-reversal on the ground of a cheap townhome. It’s not fair that my covert skills as a badminton player stemming from a junior high bully left an unclaimed prize sitting on the love sack of a cabin in the middle of nowhere.

That’s just life kids. It’s never fair. #C-wordproblems 

What do you think?

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