Occasionally I will do something so rugged, so burly, so step into a Slim-Jim-ish that I must take a step back and admire my manhood from afar. Such was the case today when I pulled out the remaining titanic root from our front garden bed with my bear hands, a pickax and a broken bottle of rum. Rarely have I felt so vindicated in my manhood as when that final strand of root, holding fast for dear life, was ripped from it's soil bed. There I stood, staring down at the large crater that remained, mocking it with my eyes and taunting the insignificance of the mammoth stump that I had just retired to it's deathbed. I may as well had a genial blue ox standing by my side, licking me on the arm, as I held the pickax over my shoulder with pride.
It's not that I have ever questioned how manly a man I am. I have many admirable manly traits: I have a mane of arm hair that no one could ever question as being unmanly. I enjoy a variety of meats, nearly raw sometimes, and I have even bit the head off a fish while pulling it from the water. I have pulled a dying yack from the Ecuadorian quicksand, only to skin it and eat it with the filing blade of my Swiss Army Knife. (I used the file blade because the other blade would have just been too easy. I needed a challenge that day in the jungle.)
Nevertheless, there are many that may call me "sissy" because of my job or the fact that I have a nose hair trimmer, or because I watch too much Oprah. Sure, some may point out my perfect styled hair or manicured toenails as potentially milksop and effeminate traits. To these folks I say, "Let's see you pull a 60 pound stump, entwined in roots and dirt out of the ground using only your hands and a few marginal tools!" Given how proud I feel at this moment, I am assured that most of the average population would struggle with such a daunting task. My ego has thus been satisfied; for within the short time of several weekend hours and a few weekday hours, I have pulled not one - but 4 mighty roots from our front yard. Chew on that for awhile you weakly, frail, doubting imps that I have not yet met, but I know exist - at least in my brain.
I have therefore satisfied my existence as a man. I may be a fancy lad, but one might refer to me as "The most rugged fancy lad in the land." Now if you will excuse me, I must go ice down my bulging, sweaty biceps. They have served me well this fine day.
1 comment:
Another fine bit of writing there Abe. I think I understand somewhat how you feel. I feel quite manly after a long run when I come home all sweaty and stinky enough that no one will get close to me. But then later when I catch myself singing along to "Les Mis" on my iPod I jump back and say "who put that music on there?"
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