Frit is always saying that “people should toss things around in their head for a minute or two before they let it come out of their mouths.”
So when she said to me, “Hey, next time Tim’s in town [Tim is the guy she's dating right now, who lives out of state], you should invite that guy you like to come and we can all go play wallyball at the gym,” I looked at her with curious eyes (AND by curious, I mean incredulous. And by incredulous, I mean disgusted.), and asked:
“Did you even toss that around in your head before you said it? I mean, at what point did any combination of those elements seem like they even remotely go together?” I asked.
“You’re the one who’s always saying how you want to see him more,” she replied.
“Yes. But not to play wallyball! Do you even remember the disaster that was our racquetball match? I’m not the least bit athletic, a fact you are well aware of,” I said.
“First of all, it’s nothing like racquetball. And you don’t have to be athletic–it’s just wallyball.”
“When have I ever been good at anything that involved a ball? And why, in any realm of my world or existence, would I want to subject myself to a game where the other players are sporty-Mc-sporty-pants [the guy I currently have a minor crush on], Tim, who’s like a gladiator, and you, Miss-bouncy-runner-lady who can pick up any sport and play it? In front of someone I’m wishing to woo.”
“I am just trying to help.”
“No. That is not called helpful. That is called humiliation.”
Of which I have plenty of … without wallyball.
And she’s supposed to be my best friend.