Him: “HAHA Wait, wait dubs. Let’s go.”
Him: “Hahaha. What you got . . . Verizon? We gonna go to the Verizon store right now and get some querty in your life. LOL”
It was cold and bright out. The square was milling with alumni, so I was bound to run into an old acquaintance. You prepare for instances like these. You plan to look effortlessly fly (oh this old thing? Pshh my hair always looks this fresh!) and say things that show how evolved you are and how awesome your life has become in the few years since graduation.
Instead, your flight gets canceled, you’ve been wearing the same clothes for two days, and you can’t put two smooth words together to save you life.
Enter, the dude. By way of greeting, he offers that sharp laugh, a witty jab. Got me with that ill Hit and Run. I barely had time to look down at my poor little phone, and sputter an interrogative squeak before he was gone.
Much like pre-opp Meg Ryan in You’ve Got Mail, I often have trouble with that swift witty retort business. This is less true when I’m in a pleasantly vicious sparring match with a real friend; but when the spirit of the shot feels truly ill meaning, I clam up. Efforts alternate between what can be best described as cave man squawks, and poor attempts at the beat box*. Both of these belie my tightly wound I’m A Dork And Sometimes I Try To Be Cool And Fail personality. I’m hopeless, helpless against the Hit and Run attack. It takes me too long to think … and then you’re gone.
What I’m saying is, if you make fun of my traitorous sunglasses (having inexplicably broken on my face without my knowledge), the little blue beanie that I wear to every Game, or my old timey cell phone (“the brick”), then turn on your heel and take your leave , don’t be surprised if I you hear me yell “Doody Face!” at the back of your head. It’s all I got.
* If you want to know what the beatbox is, or if you love you some Jamie, please enjoy: