Because if I am, my friends are too. And since there’s no way my friends are losers, it is concluded, readers, that I am not a loser for spending some of my free – 3am on Tuesday – time, shooting my Nerf gun around the apartment.
You have that? Why?
No, it’s really fun! I promise.
Friends from New York were visiting, and after many text messages, we decided to go out dancing later in the evening. At a time of such zest for planning a night-on-the-town, we did not account for the aggregate levels of laziness that are often reached when we get together and try to come up with one plan that will suit all of our extremely easygoing personalities. I, with my indefatigable – even if exhausted – tongue, persuaded the majority that we were all much too tired from the previous night’s festivities and that it would be wiser to congregate at home to shoot the shit for a few hours than to deal with the Boston nightclub scene. And so it was, that the seven of us would meet with beers, cannabis, and cell phones with internet access to Foodler. Except this time I would throw a little something into the mix.
Instead of debating with, laughing at, and torturing one another with idle hands, we would do it all while shooting the Nerf gun. My toy was received with nods and mild curiosity. Then targets were set up, instructions were given, turns were taken, and voilà – the Nerf was suddenly the awesomest idea ever. Inner ninja assassins were invoked, decorations were displaced, dining tables became barricades – we were in a war zone where only canines were spared.
An hour later, everyone wanted a Nerf gun. A certain Russian bear became so obsessed, his eyes moved around the room all night, in search of new targets, new challenges. All the while, we put our liberal brains to work as we denounced the political atrocities plaguing American life.
Nerf guns are fun. You can line up toys, cups, dry erase boards with drawn on targets, and spend the night engaging your brain threeway – with shooting, socializing, and doing the aforementioned while intoxicated yet barred from using ‘intoxication’ as an out for inefficiency in shooting or conversing. I may be of Brazilian blood, Shakira-like hips, and hopeless modesty, but the older I get, the harder it is to forgo “staying in” for adventures with Boston taxis and Red Sox caps. Before you label me as “grandma,” remember that I’ve offset this elderly propensity with the adoption of pre-pubescent diversions. I’m still young; just going through some updates.