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
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