Signs That I Am Not Much Of A Man, Part 1 Of 3, At Least

I look around and notice that I am not like the men I see.

I don’t wear gold chains and watches that weigh more than a small dog. I don’t wear cologne or after-shave, and I don’t use hair product. All the gray and white above my ears doesn’t bother me. I cut my own hair but don’t comb it. I pluck my eyebrows to get rid of the big, bendy ones, and the little hairs that grow from my antitragus.

I don’t cuss, unless crap is a cuss word. I’ve never smoked and I’ve never used drugs, except for a brief flirtation with Certs with Retsin. I was young. I’ve never tasted alcohol, I don’t drink soda pop, and I don’t eat cheese from a can. I don’t know how to bar-b-que.

I don’t hunt or fish. I don’t mind that people kill animals, whether they eat them or not, but I have no desire to be in the woods with a bunch of tough guys who drink beer and carry loaded rifles. I don’t fish because I can’t imagine anything more dull. You sit there swatting flies and wait and wait and wait, and even if you do catch one – which is exciting for those few seconds – in the end, all you have is a dead fish. I can back up a trailer, but I have no interest in boats. Bass Pro Shop holds no allure for me, although I like to go at Christmas and look at all the lights.

I would rather read than sleep or eat. I can type 72 words a minute. I own a bass guitar but can’t play it. I don’t like bands like KISS or Black Sabbath or AC/DC, but I do like the Everly Brothers, The Monkees and Ricky Nelson. I love Roy Orbison but I don’t get Jimi Hendrix. When I play music in the car, people outside the car can’t hear it.

Tomorrow, Part 2.

And then, Part 3.