Not a Hickey

I've counted twenty-three mosquito bites on my right arm alone. Risking Malaria is acceptable if I'm able to shoot my friend in the head during a game of paint-ball.

I was an hour late. The week has been so busy my planning suffered. Almost to the park, and ahead of the group, I realized my oh-so-baggy jeans had no belt. Knowing it would be hard to run with my jeans around my ankles and not wanting the mystery of boxers or briefs to be dispelled, I went looking for a trouser support system. I was sent back tracking for forty minutes to the nearest Target where I purchased a belt that was too big, and helped only a little. As I drove back, in communication with the bachelor, I worried about being "That guy."

I'm not the most athletic guy. Frolicking military style in the woods with twenty-three others, shooting paint balls for over six hours took it's toll. Most of these guys were ten or more years younger, and almost half were ex-gymnasts (who are generally an athletic bunch.) This didn't bother me or my paint ball tactics; I always hid and guarded the flag.

I was chicken for most the day and, by the time I had the guts, I lacked the energy. I briefly thought about hiding in my car sitting the last round out, but it was too much damn fun, so I recklessly forged ahead. I had become braver, so I set out along the creek and dove into the brush crawling through the mud on all fours. Not being a stealthy thirty-seven year old, a youngin' got the drop on me and provided me with a welt on my neck that resembles a love bite. If only I would have stuck with my plan, I wouldn't have to wear a turtle neck.