Just when I was beginning to think all hope was lost, ‘The Secret’ has thrown a new mix of people to hear all of my stories and to laugh at all my jokes.
Considering that everything really funny, from Bread Dog to Macaroni Soup and Guy with the Orange Truck to Shirtless Weightlifter, (Don’t you wish you knew all of these stories? Chances are you already do.) happened years ago, most of my friend have heard all of these tales at least once or twice. But with a new group of admirers in the wings, I am free to tell all of them again and again without too many groans.
Being in another contemplative mood today, I only give you a story. And lucky for everyone, you get the Shirtless Weightlifter today.
Too long ago, I was in college and living with my grandparents. I didn’t have a car, nor know that many people, oh yah, and my grandparents, especially my grandma were adamant that I stay away from boys at all costs. This meant no dating, no getting rides home from boys and especially not hanging out at a boy’s house. I never quite understood these rules, and only somewhat followed them. Subsequently in later years, my grandparents would push all boys, from those who where engaged to missionaries at me.
After three short days in Lethbridge, came my first YSA dance. I had befriended a girl in my program at school, and went to her house that night to get ready for the dance. The dance was as lame as they always were and are, however towards the end of the dance, my friend and I were approached by a guy that was hosting a party. He begged and pleaded with us to come, and when my friend turned down the invitation, he asked me if I still wanted to go. I told him that I didn’t have a car, and would have to turn down his invitation as well. He begged me to reconsider and promised me that he would drive me home after the party.
Against my better judgment, I decided to go with him to his house on the Westside. When we got to his house, we found his roommates on the couch playing video games and eating Burger King (which I think is why I am not overly fond of it today.) and we waited and waited and waited for people to come to the “party”. After about 45 minutes I realized that no one was really coming to this party and asked him if he could take me home. He insisted that people were still coming, and gave me the tour of his house.
Finally we got to the basement and he shut the door behind him. My heart started racing and all of the Young Women’s lessons that I had ever been taught came flooding to my mind. My party planning friend then proceeded to take off his shirt, panicking now, I wondered what my grandmother would say, that is, if I ever got out the basement.
Before I knew it, my new friend started lifting weights, talking up how much he could lift. (Although, he was really, really skinny and well, he was only lifting the bar. There weren’t even weights on it!) After watching this mess for too long, I realized it was 2:00am, and begged him to take me home.
He drove me home, complaining the whole time that he had to drive me all the way to the Northside and that he had to put a shirt on. When we finally got the house, I jumped out of his car without so much as a goodbye and walked up the dark driveway and into the dark house.
Thinking and hoping that my grandparents were asleep and that I could just sneak in and go to bed, I quietly opened the door. When I got into the dark house, I was greeted by my grandmother waiting by the dark stairs for my return. My grandma began questioning me where I was and what I was doing.
Not knowing much, but knowing enough to not tell my worry-prone grandmother that I went to a strange boy’s house, where he proceeded to take off his shirt; I told my grandma that I had fallen asleep at my friend’s house.(I am going to Hell for that, I know.)
Whatever happened to the boy? Has he won over any other girls with the same trick? Did he ever throw a successful party? No one knows. But heaven knows I have gotten a lot of wear out of his antics. (Although, I once told the story to my dad who wasn’t overly impressed.)
I leave you with the following metaphor.
Cookies are great. Really they are. Sometimes store bought cookies are good, and sometimes store bought cookies are bad. The only real way to know is to give them a try, and figure out what you like and what you don’t like.
But not much can compete with a homemade cookie, and it is really hard to go back to any store bought cookie, whether good or bad after you have spent so much time and energy making a homemade cookie.
Well, good luck. God speed.
Apparently passive aggressive tactics don’t work.
One day we will get this figured out.
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