**PHOTOS NOT SUITABLE FOR WORK**

So there I am at the park yesterday with the autistic teenager I work with (Buddha Monkey as he will be referred to), minding my own business, log-rolling down hills like a freak, running around in circles, trying to teach him how to race and just being the free-spirited jackass I am.

Off in the distance two deer, clearly accustomed to humans, graze in the grass.  A couple of dudes toss the football around.  A family picnics.  It is quite the all-American scene of peace and tranquility on a lovely summer evening.

Suddenly, Buddha Monkey sprints off down the hill, darting between the two men throwing the football.

"Sorry!" I say, running by turning to the man on the right. I resist doing a double-take.  My heart stops. I suddenly find it hard to breathe or even continue walking.  

Holy shit, is that?




It is.  The man, the myth, the legend...Tom Brady.  In the flesh.  Just practicing his technique.

Now, I'm not normally star-struck, but this guy is a God Among Men, the genuine Hercules of our time.  I have long maintained that he should impregnate as many women as he possibly can.  A man with genes like that should father an entire football team, hell, an entire army.

So needless to say, I am a bit taken aback.

I force myself to keep walking although my legs feel like they are made of Jell-O.  I'm trying to act normal, but my brain may have just exploded.  My heart is pumping out of my chest Roger Rabbit style. I look quickly to my left to avoid the jaw-dropping gape I feel coming and nearly give myself whiplash. I smile at the trainer.

"Sorry about that."  I manage to squeak out.  Keep walking.  Do not look right. Do not look right.  Keep walking.

"No worries," he responds.

"I can't believe how friendly those deer are!" I say, not knowing what else to say.  Oh my God it's official, I'm a total loser.

I put Tom out of my mind and work on perfecting Buddha Monkey's Sun Salutations. On their way out, they stand there for a few minutes. I refuse to turn around and demand that Buddha Monkey keep his eyes on me.  My cheeks are flushed. I feel sick.

The roles are suddenly and inexplicably reversed.  The hero I watch every Sunday in the fall, is suddenly standing there in the flesh, watching me. It is singlehandedly one of the most surreal moments of my life. 

Looking back at it, they were probably just wondering who let the crazy chick, previously log-rolling down hills, torture the poor, mute autistic kid with yoga.
~~~

Later on I am telling the guy I am dating about it and he actually gets jealous of Tom Brady (a concept that still makes me laugh hysterically).  

"Are you seriously getting jealous right now?"  I gush.  "COME ON!!! IT'S FUCKING TOM BRADY!!  He's a God Among Men! The pinnacle of the male species! A perfect male form! Just being in his presence is like standing on the peak of Mt. Olympus!"

There are only two ways to respond to this if you are a man; sexy or not sexy.

Sexy:  "Wow, that's hot baby.  Why don't you come over, I'll blindfold you and you can suck my cock like I'm Tom Brady."

Not Sexy:  (whining and pathetic-sounding) "Mmmmewww, well, I'm just going to go keep my eyes on the road and get home.  I guess we'll continue this tomorrow."

Wrong answer.

Him getting jealous about my primal crush on Tom Brady would be like me getting jealous of the female equivalents of all-around unattainable sexy goddessness:




Or better yet:




Or Tom Brady's girlfriend, currently the hottest woman on the face of planet Earth:



You have to be comfortable with your place in the world and realistic about your role.  He's a brilliant business man...but he's no Tom Brady.

I still haven't heard from Jealous Man yet today, which means he's either embarassed about the way he behaved, still nursing his wounds from last night or is genuinely pissed. I think it's safe to say it's over. 

Well, at least he can tell his friends I left him for Tom Brady. I'm sure they'll understand.