I love walking my dog. Oh yeah, it’s a great bonding experience between the two of us. Yes, the neighborhood kids come out to play with him and all know his name. Sure, the parents all wave to us as we walk and the area is nice. Yes, it’s a nice escape from life. Of course I enjoy being outside, especially when it’s nice out. Granted, playing fetch and running in the park is a great way to keep up a heart rate. . . But so is watching a game of rugby.

And THAT my friends, is why I love walking my dog. For the past couple of weeks, every evening between 6 and 7 there has been a large group of very handsome, very in-shape Polynesian men practicing and playing rugby in my park. (Ok, it’s not MY park per se, but I’ve been using it for five years. . . I called dibs.) It makes it hard to remember to throw Chewies’ ball. I also forget to breathe too. That could be problematic.

What is it about a plethora of exotic looking men throwing around a weird-shaped ball in a manner that makes absolutely no sense to me whatsoever that makes a girl go weak in the knees? I dunno. I’m not going to complain. I think I’m going to look up rugby online and figure it out.