It’s lunchtime. Will walks into my office.
“I hear that you got some amusement out of my racketball injury,” he says.
“Why yes, I did,” I respond, thinking that the next time I see ___, I’m going to have to clarify to her that when I say Don’t tell Will I said this she ought not to tell Will that I said it.
“You think it’s funny that I ran into a wall at a high rate of speed?” he asks.
“I think that it’s hilarious that you ran into a wall at a high rate of speed,” I answer. It is very hard to Will imagine moving at a high (or even medium) rate of speed. Will is very low key.
“Let’s keep in all in perspective,” I say. “I’m pretty sure that I’ve managed to develop carpal-tunnel syndrome in both wrists. So, in essence, I have managed to injure myself by sitting on my fat ass typing on my computer keyboard. I make fun of your sports injury to hide my own insecurity about the fact that I haven’t actually done anything that could be remotely construed as physical labor for many, many months.”
Will nods again. “So, what you’re saying is that you are, in fact, jealous of my sports injury.”
“Very much so. In fact, I may have to appropriate it for myself at some point–especially if the doctor gives me a wrist brace. I’ll have to come up with some sports injury or something sexy as a cover story.”
Will: “Because carpal-tunnel is unsexy.”
Me: “Because carpal-tunnel is unsexy.”
Because carpal-tunnel is unsexy. Dammit.
