Splits and Opinions, Brought to You by the Letter W
“Be quiet and eat the banana.”
I laughed uncontrollably at his statement, failing miserably to regain my composure.
"Right here, right now?"
"Good Lord, get your mind out of the gutter,” he teased. I dipped the banana in the whipped cream and proceeded to eat. I licked my lips. I nibbled and batted my eyelashes.
He smirked.
But I wasn’t about to be quiet.
“The hot fudge has melted the ice cream, and now it’s mushy. I told you we should have chosen chocolate syrup instead.”
“Quit whining, or…or… I’ll take you to a baseball game.”
Now that’s a threat.
I stuck my tongue out, knowing our rule that there can be no idle threats, and finished eating the too soft chocolate chip ice cream sans commentary.
I have no love affair with America's pastime. Never have. Never will. We’ve debated this fact, and it’s been one of our bones of contention in our relationship. I have never understood the appeal of sitting outside for nine innings watching grown men swing at a ball, jog to bases, then endlessly spit and make adjustments. Never had the desire to traipse around the NE corridor visiting other baseball stadiums, yet alone to drive across the country to visit them. Unlike my friend who adores the Chicago Cubs and travels from stadium to stadium reveling in the popcorn, peanuts, and Cracker Jack…and apparently the activities taking place on the diamond.
If I liked baseball, I would be a Phillies fan because I was brought up to support the home teams.
While in graduate school in Lexington, KY I supported the Phillies when they played in the championship against the Braves. A Ph.D. student from Wabash shared an office with me; he was a die-hard Atlanta Braves fan. We good-naturedly teased one another; he would chant and do the “chop” motion, and I would hum the Rocky theme song.
He was hot—tall, dark hair, wire rim glasses…and he sported a tattoo of a W positioned just beneath his belt line. He was a swimmer in college and would regale us with stories of shaving bodily hair to counteract resistance. I thought he was slightly crazy, in that crazy-sexy kind of way that I find irrestistible.
He had a very prim and proper girlfriend who attended Bob Jones University as an undergraduate. They were an odd match because he was an allegedly reformed party boy (only slightly reformed, because he would join us for our Friday afternoon happy hours which melted into Saturday morning happy hours) and she was never, ever a party girl. They're happily married now, so perhaps opposites do attract. Although, I’m sorry, I don’t see how prim and proper can ever be fun. That’s just me, I guess. I know my share of sweet, teetotaling good girls who don’t eat bananas suggestively because their minds never approach the gutter, and they're very married. I'm very single.
Hmm.
Anyway, my officemate would roll up his shirt, inch down his pants, and flash his W and say, “What do you think about that?” to me whenever we would disagree about some literary topic or the other. I’d begin to sing the “Wuh, Wuh, Wuh,” song from Sesame Street. He'd pull down his shirt in disgust.
His tattoo was hot, but I would never give him the satisfaction of admiring it. It was never boring sharing an office with him.
I thought he and his W were just fine, but his choice in baseball teams was misguided.
However, not even a baseball game with him and his W would wet my whistle…
Well…maybe...