I would like to start off by thanking myself for the dream I had last night. It was kind of awesome, but I do have to say, Subconscious? You can do better:
I’m sitting in the driver’s seat of a car at a gas station, when none other than Tom Brady opens the passenger side door and climbs in. I am surprisingly nonplussed by the fact that, hello, that just happened. He is well groomed; we’re talking pre-Giselle but post GQ front-cover quality.
He shuts the door, glances over at me and says, “Would you hold these for me, please?” He hands me a pair of swim trunks. While I should be sitting there all Anastasia-like, a dumbstruck deer in headlights with eyes bulging and no idea what to say or do with the presence of Adonis before me, instead I get all sarcastic.
I furrow my eyebrows at him, turn up the right side of my lips in my usual I’m about to be an ass to you smirk and say, “Another swim trunk?”
Because of course he’s already wearing swim trunks. And a shirt. What the hell, subconscious? This is exactly what I’m talking about. Do better.
Unaffected, he proceeds to give me an explanation of why he has brought an additional pair of swim trunks:
“Well, I always bring a second pair to wear on the beach (We’re going to the beach? NOW WE’RE TALKING). There’s always too much paparazzi hanging around trying to get a nut shot. It happened to Vince once and really, it’s just not worth it. So I always wear two just in case.”
So in my few minutes with Tom Brady, this is the best I could dream up. Instead of grabbing me by the hair at the back of my neck and crushing me to him over the shift stick because he MUST HAVE ME NOW, we have a conversation about Vince Wilfork’s testicles.
To which I reply to him, “Oh. That makes sense.”
I start to drive away, and the alarm goes off. SON OF A…