the throws of passion

In a post-pizza haze the other night, the boyfriend flipped on (what else) SportsCenter. I watched intensely, a cheesy odor wafting up from the corners of my mouth. Something about golf, something about Ben Rothlisberger's crazy pork chop-looking thumb brace, something about something. As Terrell Owens finished his in-depth commentary on himself, fancy graphics flashed and spun as the next segment landed on the screen: Professional baseball.

I will never know the pressure of a major league baseball career due to a myriad of reasons. I don't play sports. I don't like baseball. I don't like to challenge myself physically. Ever. But, let's say I somehow by the grace of a magically atheltic gene pool and the delayed appearance of testicles, I became a candidate for and then member of the professional baseball circuit. I'd have my pick of positions because I would be preternaturally good at all of them. I decide to become a pitcher. I can throw with 100% accuracy. I can say with unwavering certainty that if I were to meet a fellow sports god(dess) in the diamond who countered each of my orgasmic pitches with acumen only known to NASA computer programs, I would NOT, no matter what my manager says, intentionally aim my bullet-like baseball at the body of a batter. Who does that?

The Texas Rangers and Anaheim Angels do.

This was one of the internationally relevant stories on SportsCenter on this particular evening. Jealous men who make millions of dollars a year throwing balls at each other out of anger. Are we 12 again? Unable to control the frustration of an embarassing infield error? The shame, the regret, the rage, all bubbling over and hurled at the mid-section of another "grown" man in the form of a leather ball stuffed with string. That the first body pitch was reciprocated in later innings only makes those subsequent throws all the more ridiculous. "He started it!" a man would tattle. Then he'd pick his nose.

I'm continually amazed at the infancy of men, especially the sports idols exaulted on the shiny pages of magazines and splashy segments on TV. The manliest men are merely boys with advanced self-righteousness. As college graduates (most of them) they have learned to justify their actions with erudite words like "unfortunate" and "totally." It's retaliation for an unscrupulous deed, they claim. It's also decidedly UNprofessional. Stupid boys. Don't throw a ball at him, be a woman and stab him in the back.

parking karma

Though not obsessively, I spend the greater portion of my day thinking of, daydreaming about, mentally cursing or actually communicating with the boyfriend.

It starts in the morning when I awake to Ryan Seacrest and his pseudo-ingrate radio persona. Normally, the boyfriend doesn't subject his aural faculties to top 40 drivel but when he visits me, he is treated to pop songs that lower both our IQs to a collective 10 as we lay around and find ourselves unable to read magazines; we can only look at the pictures. When I hear Ryan Seacrest, I wonder if the boyfriend is also awake and like me, getting ready for his commute. As I turn my car onto the main road that leads to the freeway, I estimate how close to his office the boyfriend has driven. Sometimes I give him a call and we sit silently on our cellphones, each too drowsy to summon conversation. Most days, I just imagine and drive.

When I arrive at work, I log on to instant messenger and say hello to him. Thus begins our workday, 15 miles apart but face to face electronically. We discuss news headlines, office snafus, sometimes our lunch orders. Midday arrives and he tells me when he's leaving and moments later, I see his profile go "idle." When he's gone, I wonder when he will be back and if he's enjoying his food. When he returns, we discuss our meals, good or bad and ease into the afternoon with more chatter about our joint social plans and links to inappropriate video footage streaming on YouTube. When one of us leaves work, we say goodbye and as soon as the other is able, a call is placed and we again telecommute together. Some days we meet for dinner and jokes. Some days we go home to our respective apartments. On the days when we're apart, we speak again usually once before we sleep. This is our routine. When we're not speaking, I'm wondering how he is passing his time. I hope he's using it to clean his bathroom or run the dishwasher. He's probably playing his PlayStation. I scowl as I put away my clothes. Regardless, I miss him. Maybe it's one-sided. A boy who spends that much time thinking about a girl is wont for healthier activities. But a girl who ruminates as such is in love. No matter what small fights we have, at the end of the day, I await our last communiqué.

We hadn't planned to see each other until tomorrow. Imagine my delight this evening as I hunted for a parking space at a supermarket near my office and lo and behold, I saw the boyfriend's car approach from the opposite direction in the same aisle. It's noteworthy to mention that I shop less than once a month at this particular store. The boyfriend shops here even less. Even with those two factors, had I entered the plaza just one minute later or tried a different aisle for a spot or used the other entrance, we would hardly be the wiser. We may not have even discovered our missed chance meeting if we didn't discuss our after work plans in detail. This of course did not happen. We were meant to see each other, in the crowded parking lot, as shoppers with swaying white plastic bags fussed between our cars.

For a moment, I didn't think it was him. I had just been in the middle of a where is he right now thought. But, knowing the errands that he said he would run, an epiphany struck as I rolled down my window and he rolled down his. Despite all the thoughts I had of him both fleeting and extensive, despite our circadian digital discourse, the moment I saw his face, my heart skipped a beat. He smiled at me. I told him to park underground. I became nervous and wobbly in my head. We parked and I could hardly contain myself. It was like I was in high school again. It was like parking lot puppy love.

These moments happen less and less. Sometimes I get scared that they will diminish to the point of never happening at all. I certainly know couples who probably don't have these moments anymore or sadder still, never had these moments to begin with. If past lives exist, maybe the moment-less ones had their rip-roaring love affairs as passionate frogs in Belize and are only now cosmically frigid. Or perhaps I have the psychic power to will the boyfriend's appearance in my orbit. Excuse me while I go think about him some more. Think about his smile and the way his hair hangs in his eyes when it's long. Think about our gleeful hug in the subterrainian parking garage. Maybe think about him vacuuming; *shudder* an even more unlikely occurence.