From the title above, you probably think you’re in for some tale of drunken debauchery, some sexy boozy story or juicy gin-induced gossip, but you’re dead wrong.
Instead, this is a short narrative that highlights my stupidity. So here goes:
My boyfriend and I were sitting in his backyard this weekend. It’s a great little backyard that gets lots of sun. We were each drinking a beer, trying to decide how to spend the rest of the afternoon. He leaves for a second and brings back this small, plastic, yellow “tennis racquet.”
You may have seen these before. They’re some crazy newfangled device used to kill flies, mosquitoes and other bugs. Slightly curious, I ask to see it, then try to figure out how it works.
My boyfriend informs me there are two small buttons, one on each side, that need to be depressed in order for it to work. Hmm, yes, I see them…
“So does this thing work?” I inquire.
“Yeah, it does, but I’m pretty sure there are no batteries in it.”
I’m toying with the idea of trying it, but are there batteries in it or not?
I take a chance, depress the two buttons and touch it. Nothing happens. I’m relieved and disappointed at the same time. I mean, how bad can it be? It can’t take too much to kill a fly. Can it? I’m sure I can handle it.
So I push on..... “So what does it feel like, you know, if there are batteries in this bad boy? Have you tried it before?”
“Sure. I’ve touched it before. It feels like a pin prick."
He takes the racquet inside while I contemplate the sensation of a pin prick. I love acupuncture, and that involves multiple pin pricks in various body locations simultaneously. A pin prick? That’s nothing.
My boyfriend returns with the tennis racquet in hand, fresh batteries now installed. He hands it back to me.
“It feels like a pin prick?” I re-ask.
“Yeah, more or less.”
Why the hell not, right? I’m really not going to be able to contain my curiosity anyway, so I should just go ahead and get this over with.
I pick up the racquet, depress the two buttons and decide my finger is too sensitive an area to touch. I look at my leg, lift the racquet and bring it down on the front of my left knee.
“Aiiiiiiiiyyyya!!!” or some sound similar to that of a small puppy whose tiny paw is being crushed by a grown man’s work boot, involuntarily escapes from my mouth. It’s flipping painful. Truly. (Definitely on the "more" side of "more or less.")
Needless to say, my boyfriend is laughing, hard. And he’s informed me since that he’s had many post-shock chuckles over it as well. (Does this guy even like me, I have to wonder?!?)
But after looking at YouTube because my boyfriend had the foresight NOT to try and film this episode, I realize that this is not an uncommon activity, and that although I am stupid, at least I’m not as stupid as this guy.