"When my pass came in you dropped the ball...it didn't change the way I feel"

So yeah remember that time I told you I wasn’t a geriatric playa anymore?

I probably should have never taken that nickname off the table. My thug is 38 years old. Yep that’s right people, do that math—although I choose not to for fear of blowing a few brain cells I so desperately need. My mom and Dana asked me, doesn’t that kinda blow the excitement for ya, to which I responded, no no not really. And that’s the scary part, I didn’t really bat an eye, well in the non-flirting sense because it would be more likely that I did bat my eyes and toss my hair at the news. I’m like that kid who just loooves the way blue hot flames look…just wants to touch them…put his hands in the crucible of certain pain yet absolutely enchantingly dangerous waters. He knows he’s gonna get burned but hell wouldn’t it just be fun?!

I’m not even gonna feign Maria and cry “Oh no Anita no, Anita no…” If you’ve managed to make it through more than the first 8 minutes of finger snaps, dance moves, and great vocals, you’ll understand what I mean. I’m not stupid and I won’t play the ingénue; the deck is stacked and most likely not in my favor. But let’s talk about the irony here. I was by far the youngest person in that exercise room tonight. There were two groups playing raquetball…one that contained strapping young men of considerable agility and robust bodies. I was watching the group bandaged and braced, Asprin-ed and Nebutoned. But to be fair, my thug was only well Motrin-ed due to a bad ankle—the back had cleared up over the weekend.

“I went for the steal, maybe it was rushed. Oh my crush, I got a crush.”

Give me a break. He speaks impeccable English and has a Boston accent. Northeasterners really turn me on. Even if he did go to college ::cough:: 16 years ago.