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Wonderwife is trying to kill me.

How you ask? Knife, poison in the coffee, peanut butter and salmonella sandwich?

Nope. Softball. I mentioned that there’s a softball team thing forming, and she mentioned she thought it might be a good idea for me. Fresh air, exercise, getting away from the computer for a few hours…

It’s like she doesn’t know who she married sometimes. Sports are for watching. They’re the things that other people do. I’m quite happy to just, y’know. Watch. And kick and scream in agony as someone tries to get cute with the puck yet again, which leads to a turnover and a 2 on 1 the other way and ends up with our goalie getting faked out of his pads on a goal you couldn’t design any better if you had 3 days and a supercomputer.

But I digress.

I may…actually try this thing. Of course, I’m going to have to get a glove. Maybe a bat. And shoes. and a hat. And sunglasses. Cause goddamnit if I’m going to spend an afternoon pretending to be one of the boys of summer, I’m going to look good doing it. And I will, until something happens where I have to be athletic. Then I’ll be faceplanting hard and fast as i trip over one of those…things. Green, sharp…grass. That’s what they call it right?