ducks: the hottest new thing in headwear.

worst pain possible.

The other day, Angela and I visited Angela’s dad in the hospital. Hanging on the wall of his hospital room, right above the fire-truck red plastic bin where they deposited the used-up needles and other medical waste, was the following “Pain Rating Scale”:



Now, it’s a good thing I’m not a nurse. The way I figure it, people love sympathy and they don’t mind lying to get it. You see at the far end of the number scale there on the upper right-hand corner of the picture where it says “worst pain possible”—see it? If I was a nurse and my patient told me that their kidney or ankle or chest discomfort was causing them to experience a “10” on the pain scale, I don’t think I could avoid calling them out on it.

“Worst pain possible huh?”

“Yeah, it’s definitely a ‘10.’”

Bam. (That’s the sound of me punching the patient right in the face.) My patient would grab at his nose, see the smattering of blood dotting his palm, wince in new, more immediate pain, and maybe even start crying.

Then I'd look him square in the eyes. “Liar.”

when a cowboy misplaces his hat, he has to make do with whatever is available

the doctor's office.

The other day I went to the doctor. I hate going to the doctor—not because I'm afraid of needles or tongue depressors or anything. It’s mostly because I think it’s a giant waste of time. I go to the trouble of getting work off, setting an appointment, locating my insurance card amidst all the frequent bread buyer and yogurt club cards, and nine out of ten times the doctor does next to nothing to alleviate my symptoms.

“It’ll run its course,” he’ll say.

And that’s when I punch him. Right in the kisser. Or at least I imagine it really vividly. I wonder what it must feel like to charge people for nonexistent services. If I wanted a passive prediction of bodily regeneration, I would’ve just drove right past the doctor’s office and gone to my parents’ house. My mother would undoubtedly have uttered the very same vague pronouncement that everything would turn out all right. And she would’ve scooped me a bowl of cookies and cream ice cream to soften the blow and improve my otherwise phlegmy day.

But I don’t explain this line of thinking to the doctor. I just stare at him with arms crossed, brow furrowed and demand, “Are you at least going to scoop me some ice cream?” He looks at me puzzled, but my resolve and countenance are unflinching. I want my ice cream.

a pear-shaped man is rarely comfortable at the beach.

manliness.

It’s no secret that machoness isn’t my forte. For proof, just take a look at that first sentence. No macho man has ever used the word “forte.” But I use it all the time. One time, right after I used it, my father-in-law called me a metrosexual. It really caught me off guard. I didn’t know if his declaration was the type of thing where he’d recently learned a new vocabulary term and wanted badly to put it to practical use, or if he really thinks I’m a little on the femmie side. Either way, it got me thinking.

I’ll admit that I’ve long found myself partial to a nice pair of tight-fitting jeans and even once owned some maroon corduroys. But that doesn’t make me floppy-wristed. So what if I’ve never shot a gun or sliced through freshly dead deer hide with a pocketknife or even successfully closed a pocketknife? That doesn’t mean I’m any less of a man. And so what if one time when I was working behind the counter at a local frozen yogurt store a toddler asked his mom why I had hair like a girl? So what? If I hadn’t been occupied adding gummy bears to his sugar cone, I would have asked his mom why her son required Velcro shoes and spoke with that ridiculous lisp.

But what does he know? There are plenty of manly things about me. I have never met a jar I couldn’t open. I eat meat occasionally (even if most of the time it’s grilled chicken tossed over a cozy bed of organic baby spinach (dressing on the side)). And unlike the conventional metrosexual, I wouldn’t be caught dead within five miles of an open container of clear nail polish. Not five miles.

Frankly, it’s a good thing Angela and I had plans later that evening to pick out fabric for her new sofa, otherwise my day would have really been ruined.