Michigan Wolverines on Sunday

Anyone who knows me (and if you are reading this, then you do because 99% of my audience is somewhat friendly faces . . . at least until I mention them in an article) then you know that I am not the most manly man.

Alright, stop nodding your head in agreement.

For starters, I have feelings, and often feel compelled to discuss them, especially when I’m involved in a “relationship”. I want to know if we are ready to take the “relationship” to the “next level” and I generally know what I am talking about too.

I also tend to not like sporting events. If you planned to get me season tickets to anything, you ought to rethink that little gift that goes on giving. Think socks instead.

On the other hand, I do do manly things.

I white-water raft; sometimes without the raft. I rock-climb, and since I’m not lead-rope certified, I go up the lead routes without the rope. I even know what an RBI and ERA stand for (thanks Lillian).

I have some great scars too.

There’s the scar under my left eye from when I thought that walking in front of the kids on the swings was a good idea (apparently an event that I repeated several times and generally right before school pictures). There’s the scar on my left wrist from where I was burned by battery acid over a six-hour period; apparently I thought that being a mechanic at age two was the career path for me. Then I have my appendix scar. Sure, lots of people have those, but did they drive themselves to the emergency room when they realized they were having appendicitis?

Alright then.

Finally, there’s the eight-inch coup-de-grace scar on my stomach from when I was impaled on a Cossack spear during the Bolshevik revolution. Man, those Cossacks were mean! I had to walk 300 miles through the bitter Siberian winter to arrive at the town where the Communists had seized my winter estate. Oh wait, that was Omar Sharif.

How did I get that scar??

Recently, however, the fact of my lack of manliness was brought home to me in two very distinct episodes that have nothing to do with the fact that I write for a living.

The first was a week ago, while at the blessing of Jase’s latest and greatest niece, Sasha (bonus points if you can spell Jase’s first and last name). Sasha is a beautiful child who was not overly inclined to draw attention to herself by crying or otherwise causing any kind of fit that instantly, and dually, calcifies my spine and forces enclitics out of my mouth like, “Shut ‘em up, or shut ‘em down and make a new one.”

Well, they do! Children just frighten me much in the same way that say marriage frightens me. First, I can’t believe anyone would have me, and second, if they would, then why one earth would they want to pass my genes on to children.

I mean have you seen my nose?

But I digress.

Post-blessing, as is such the wont at these affairs, there was a mass gathering for the breaking of bread, or in this case pasta and veggies. Utahn’s love their frozen lasagna.

As Jase, his new bride Annette (as opposed to all his old brides), our friend Scott and I sat around a table, Annette pulled out (at our request) the professional wedding pictures. Scott and I went through them rather quickly, discussing the blessed event and mostly remarking at how hot it was. Something akin to the fires of hell in the Mojave Desert only warmer if you must know.

Well, in one lovely candid, I am sitting on a concrete ledge with my legs crossed looking rather . . . well . . . gay.

Not that I think being gay is a bad thing. I am in support of gays. Especially if two or three unrealistically attractive women want to express their gayness together.

But, in order to gain some sympathy for my reduced manly status, I called my friend Lillian and told her about the picture.

“Rob,” Lillian said in comforting tones, “You cross your legs better then I do.”

Where did I put my steal-toed combat boots anyhow?

Much chagrined by the entire event, I have spent the past week not crossing my legs, and trying to wear more manly clothing. Like my Michigan jersey.

Jerseys are very manly, right?

Apparently no one ever sees me wearing such sports-fan paraphernalia, nor would think that I would own such a thing. First, my friend Kathy asked, “Do you even know who the team is?” which was followed fifteen minutes later, and without prompting by my friend Mike asking, “Do you even know who the mascot is?”

Well, it’s the wolverines if you must know.

And no, I didn’t know that before they told me, alright!

I picked up the jersey because I lived in Michigan, they were cheep, and dark blue is a good color on me. You’re talking to a guy who generally matches his socks, shoes and belt before going out the door. Yes, on purpose!

Alright, so I’m not overly manly. But damnit, I’m not kidding about the socks thing!