Shoot me down

Sometimes the enactments I get for why my request should not be obliged are in fact, worth the shoot down.

A couple of weeks ago, I asked the boyfriend the following question: If  my shoulder acts up at the races, could he take me to see  Dr. Costa? (You know, Costa, the guy who saved Mick Doohan’s leg…) I mean, who wouldn’t want to be treated by Dr. Costa if given the opportunity? And I kind of have the opportunity.  So I was half planning what kind of ultra strenuous workout I could do without breaking my collarbone for the fourth time but just far enough to, you know,  mistake some muscle pain for nerve pain.

So boyfriend responds to my request in his special English: “He is coming old. And maybe crazy, it’s better you don’t see him but other doctor. Costa, he walk around like…he think to be a Dio, you know?” He then stretched his arms up and away from his body, olympian style, puffing out his chest, sticking out his lower lip, and turning his face skyward to strike an arrogant deity pose, which he held then reposed several times. While wearing only tighty whities and bright blue flip flops.

And that constituted a “no” .

So worth it.