Boy Watching

I need to get out more. I spend a good portion of my time on freelance gigs at la casa, tap-tap-tapping on my keyboard, encouraging my imagination to run away with me (stuff that embarrasses my children—oh wait, no, they're used to it), and the always entertaining naked sing-song and dance-pong when the mood strikes ('kay, they're not really used to that part). It's solitary time, y'all, so I have to make myself get out before I start imagining I'm Omega Woman and, holy hell, when are the flesh-eating mutants coming for me?

Uh-oh. Did you hear something? I swear I saw movement outside my window.

So today, my outing consisted of boy watching, my favorite pastime, right after boy kissing—a totally underrated activity. I went down to Retirement Central and watched the senior* guys play softball.

Now you younguns might picture old farts limping to the batter's box and, barely able to raise the bat past their man boobs and diabetes bellies, they'd bunt it two feet and hobble to first base where they'd be tagged out ten minutes before they actually arrived. Or, if it's like Kindergarten and everybody wins, the old farts get helpsies and do-overs. They'd make snail-mail rounds to home plate, all the while pushed by more old codgers, hunching, hacking, and hocking loogies that you just know you're going to step in. Right? Wrong. O-o-o-oh so wrong, people.

Wait. Did you hear that? In the attic? Sounded kinda scratchy?

Um, anyway. Y'all, these guys might be past their proverbial prime, but I'm telling you, they're in it to win it. I've seen it with my own eyes! For reals. Hardcore. Listen, this is how it goes: from the dugout, they bound into position on deck; crouch at the ready in the batter's box; swing it like it's hot—like athletes half their age; and blast it deep into the outfield or line-drive that sucker to the infield. And then? They sprint their aging asses around the bases. The fielders are in the same shape: beatin' feet to make spectacular catches and fire the ball infield for the out. Yeah, if you think Retirement Central is for frailies who need help wiping the dribble off their chins or their asses, think again. Of course, they still hock loogies and scratch their balls in public, but that is the prime directive of men, no?

Hhhhh! I know I heard something that time! There's no such thing as flesh-eating mutants, there's no such thing as flesh-eating mutants . . . Breathe. Okay. I'm okay. Really. It's nothing. I'm perfectly safe here. Alone . . .

Where was I? Believe it or not, some fine specimens of manhood are at play out there, albeit not the hotties of yesteryear. But I go for the love of the game. Plus, I love the smell of field chalk in the morning. Plus, the bleachers are primo, with shade and everything. Plus, I never saw a concession stand that served breakfast.

Retirement Central totally has their shit together. I'm getting in shape now, so when I retire, I can compete in softball. And for kicks, I'm installing a perimeter zap-o-meter for flesh-eating mutants. Just, you know, for kicks.

* Note, "senior" at Retirement Central begins at age 55.

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