The imaginary perils of being prepared

I went down to the gym with Bob at lunch today. You know, the gym with the big red button. The one that's clearly labeled.

On the way out the door I murmured, "I hope we have the place to ourselves." And wiggled my eyebrows.

And then we both cracked up, and I said, "You know, you should just tell me how much of a dork I am. Like, you should totally say, 'Lis, you know all those guys you complain about? Well, I've got news for you. It's not them.'"

Insead he said, "Are you kidding? If there's anyone else in there, I'll have to kick their asses and throw them out the door!"

Good boy.

We were in the elevator with two of our colleagues, one of whom was trying to open a pack of gum. She was trying, to no avail, to tear the wrapper.

So our pal Bob pulled out a Swiss Army knife. He opened the scissors and said, "Here, let me help you with that."

Seriously. It turns out he's always looking for opportunities to use the thing.

So once we'd rounded the corner to the gym, I said, "God, Bob, I can totally you picture you with some girl. She'll be trying to open a condom, and struggling with it. And then you'll pull out your Swiss Army knife and try to be all prepared and helpful."

"Yeah. And then she'll say, 'Oh, it's getting late. Gotta go. Perhaps another time.'"