A regular night in the week might go a little something like this:
“Shoot him in the face. No the face!”
Barely restraining my energy and gusto, I even place my index finger directly on the television screen, tapping it the way most people might do so to pick out a piece of meat at the butcher shop or a diamond to a jeweler. Feel free to use whatever image works best for you.
My finger hits the screen with a force that makes it look like I have a clue, but it’s also not so hard that I’d have to buy a new set.
Incredible Hulk I am not.
“RIGHT THERE, babe.”
“Soldier down” the TV says back to me.
And a nice sigh probably followed.
Actually, I’m not really sure what happened because I have an attention span comparable to the longevity of Barbie shoes.
To begin with I probably wasn’t even paying total attention. What what?
That’s when I’ll blame the specie that is my gender, and her will to multi-task or take on varied roles. Good grief.
Read these like you’d read the label off a bottle of cleaning fluid that for purposes of this blog also looks like a game of Mad Libs:
____________ is self involved. ______________ enjoys activity of or pertaining to ____________’s interest. If ________________ is not playing a major part in _____________ not playing a video game I’m being some kind of annoying video game cheerleader.
Is that what it’s called?
Maybe I’m a coach. I do kind of feel like a coach. Most days I have a clip pad handy and I think I carry myself like a Pat Riley (mind you during 1987 Lakers).
Hmm…but maybe I’m that other thing…what’s it called?
Oh yeah, the annoying GF?
I guess I’ll go for a mix of the first two because when I step out of the room to check my email, I hear my BF calling me back to watch him play.
Would someone want the annoying thing gone to return?
He didn’t say he wanted me to bring him a drink either.
Walking back over to the living room you kind of almost want a good song to slip in and really set the mood for the moment, because for all the time that has passed, I still get all “Awww,” when he calls for me. (That’s maybe not so much the Riley part of me, but who knows).
My baby wants me to see him pick off Mexican Rebels (He’s playing Tom Clancy’s Ghost Recon Advanced Warfighter 2) in 128-bit glory.
And then I wonder what that’s all about too?
(A war contemporary with Mexicans? Well I’ll get to the game part later. )
Like any good coach, I’m tempted to call out a time out, and come up with a better strategy. I want to get into the head of the players too you know…
But before I even blow my whistle I figure–maybe it’s not so much thinking. Maybe it’s just base; like some kind of primordial thing going on. (?)
It’s the kind of instinct that harkens way back and deep into the crevices of the medulla oblongata (I’m more than sure game makers/technology super nerds/market strategists/Daytime show panelists are looking into).
A primordial thing in us, yeah?
Hey, cave guys probably called their GF’s away from picking berries to watch them club a bear right?
Looking at my BF play is like looking at my BF transform into the stuff he wants to be when he’s not having to be a regular person. (Which I suppose is the dream of any man one time or another.) He does it without even trying, it just happens.
Game pad in his had, it looks like it takes a hold of all his senses, while simultaneously making them more apt. That thing about the male mind be more designed for spatial activity, for math, and strategy (Along with acting like an ass on occasion), all of it looks like it comes into fruition when he plugs in.
Yep, my BF couldn’t be more at one with nature than when he’s glued to his PS3. I’m convinced of him even using all bits of that “6.5 more gray matter” got parts of that 6.5 than female brain.
From the movement of his hands and eyes, I know there are probably all sorts of spatial and analytical things going on even if there is only the sound of video artillery going off to pay me audio company, because he’s very quiet.
The silence is another sign of his hypnotized concentration.
I probably make that same face when “my stories” are on.
I say about five things. Maybe two or three words, (but because I have to answer myself, it kind of feels like more, ) before he finally breaks away and gives me something.
“This game is weird,” he says.
Could it be any weirder than me imagining and mentally mouthing off all kinds of male/female stereotypes?
He frowns a little.
Maybe he’s tired. Maybe he needs more cheering.
“Weird, how?” I reply.
More seconds of silence. More seconds of him tactfully maneuvering characters and pressing buttons.
It feels like his life bar is going down.
I want to put my clipboard down. In the seconds I looked away from the screen to study my BF’s gestures, the game got a lot more gruesome and challenging. (Ooh violence and is that an Abrams Main Battle Tank?)
I kind of want to play now actually.
I’m about to take hold of the extra game controller, when he stops the game abruptly.
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