“Oh my goodness, that’s a sweet forehand that girl has,” I said to myself. It was college, and some friends and I were tossing a frisbee around. One of the friends was a girl I’d never met before who was short, had brown hair, big eyes, and, seriously, could make a frisbee look like it leapt out of her hand powered only by happy thoughts, bound for the second star to the right. I was playing frisbee because frisbees are like the optimistic dreams of footballs yearning to be liberated from the pernicious grip of an oppressive gravity. This makes it way easier to make spectacular catches that impress the ladies.
No, I’m serious. I already had in my future blog post list a story about a girl I impressed by catching a frisbee, and subsequently said an awkward thing to. But, now that I think about it, that happened twice. We will get to those stories eventually. But first, I need to talk about girls who can throw frisbees before we get to how hot I am when I catch them.
Here’s the thing: I don’t know what makes most guys realize that they’ve met someone special, but for me, it isn’t the sort of thing that I see in teen movies, like “she has nice legs” or “I bet I could make her into the prom queen.” These are the things I have thought to myself when I have, at one time or another, out of nowhere, been suddenly attracted to a girl:
- Wait – she likes physics?
- That scarf is hot.
- I can’t believe she likes to play the xylophone as much as I do.
- Wait – she likes brown ale?
- I didn’t know any one person could like economics that much.
- Oh my goodness, I thought only Winnie the Pooh said “Oh, bother.”
- Oh my goodness, she curses like a sailor.
- Wait – she likes video games?
- Boy names for girls are the best things ever.
- She throws a frisbee like a dream.
So, to reset: I was attracted to a girl in college once because I thought her frisbee-throwing technique was hot. So naturally I had to say something awkward to her.
“Do you play frisbee often?”
“Yeah, you know, we play every once in a while.”
“What’s your name? I’m Justin.”
She had a boy name. Oh man, it’s totally over. By the way, I try not to think about why this is attractive. It just is, and it doesn’t matter why. Especially when you have been watching an unhealthy quantity of Bewitched and Dawson’s Creek.
“Well, listen, why don’t you call me when you are playing next?” See, that’s how you take the bull by the horns. That’s how you get girls on dates. Actually, that’s how you turn into a best friend, but I haven’t necessarily mastered all aspects of my talking-to-girls game by college.
“Sure. Write your number down for me.”
So I did. Look, I know. I’m a disaster. This website doesn’t exist because I’ve always known what I was doing.
Later that evening, I caught up with one of the friends who had also participated in the frisbee-throwing from earlier in the evening. They looked grim.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“Well, you remember boy-name girl?”
“Do I ever. I gave her my number. She sure could throw a frisbee.”
“Right. Well, listen, she is in the hospital. She ran into a tree just after you left, like, headfirst.”
“Oh no! Is she okay?”
“She has a concussion and a pretty big gash on her head, but she’ll be fine.”
There was a pause. I thought, looked at the girl I was talking to, thought some more, and, finally, couldn’t help myself.
“Do you think she still has my phone number?”