Lingerie Bag is Testing my Manliness

So we had some friends over for dinner last week.  During dinner my friend starts telling me about his upcoming Vegas trip.  He’s heading out to Sin City with three buddies for a four day gambling bender.  Pretty much plans to gamble from the time he gets off the plane, until the time he heads home.  Sleep maybe four hours a day, grab a quick bite to eat at some fast food restaurant in between poker games, and MAYBE, hit a strip club late at night.  My buddy just lights up while talking about his Vegas trips.

And they sound just awful to me.  I mean, I’d really like to be excited about his trips, but I can’t.  A dudes’ trip to Vegas with little sleep, lots of gambling and not much else, sounds horrible.  Now I like Vegas.  Been there three times, and had a blast each time.  But I like going to Vegas with my wife.  Sure I like to gamble a bit, but I also like to take in a show or walk the strip (great people watching out there) or dine at one of the nicer restaurants.  Hell, the main reason I like being in Vegas with my wife is because I honestly think Vegas is one of those weird places where strange things really do happen.  I think there’s definitely something in the water in Vegas that makes “normal” people a little “bat-shit crazy.”  I think you could take your mild-mannered “nice-girl” wife to Vegas and suddenly she’s pulling you behind a dumpster at the Red Lobster for a quickie.  For the record, that has not happened to me.

But I just can’t get excited?

Come to think of it, before we left for spring break, another buddy of mine recommended that we charter a fishing boat while we were there.  Now that’s something we were already talking about as my oldest son has really gotten into fishing.  But after listening to my buddy talk about one of his recent fishing charters, it was a no-brainer.  So sure enough we got in touch with a local charter captain, and booked the afternoon.  My oldest son loved it.  My younger son got a kick out of it.  Hell, even my wife enjoyed it.  But I was less than thrilled with the whole thing.  I felt sea-sick soon after we pushed off from the dock, and I was somewhat horrified by the treatment of the poor shrimp that we used for bait.  At one point one of them jumped out of the live-well and flopped around the deck of the boat.  I had my 9-year old son pick it up and throw it into the ocean where I’d like to think he’s still swimming as of today.

This was not at all as exciting as my buddy seemed to make it sound.

But maybe there’s something more to this story.

At my son’s baseball game a few weeks ago, one of the 10-year-old boys pulled out a bag of sunflower seeds and started passing them around, all the boys grabbed a handful of seeds and jammed them in their mouths.  And one by one they started spitting out the shells and eating the seeds.  No problem.  That is until the bag was handed to me.  Without hesitation I grabbed a handful of seeds and stuffed them into my mouth . . . only to realize that I had forgotten how to eat sunflower seeds.  Literally forgot how to do it.  Even though ‘spittin’ seeds is as much a part of baseball as an actual mitt, I had forgotten how to do it.  Worse yet, I had forgotten how to do it in front of a dozen 10-year-old boys who watched in both horror and amazement as “Coach Clay” alternated between spitting several seeds (still in their shells) out and spitting the actual sunflower seed out (yes I had somehow opened the shell only to spit the seed out instead of the shell).  It was awful, and after sending the boys onto the field I spit the entire mouthful of seeds into the garbage can.

Hmm . . . .

Guy’s trip to Vegas, no.

Deep-sea fishing trip, no.

Able to eat sunflower seeds while at the ballpark, no.

What is wrong here?

So the other day my wife comes home from shopping and shows me all the free stuff she’s gotten as a result of her purchases.  By the way, next to shopping the thing that makes my wife the happiest is getting free stuff from all her purchases.  My two favorite words are blow and job.  My wife’s two favorite words are free and complimentary.  I can’t tell you how excited she gets while showing me her “FREE” bottle of wine or her “FREE” chip & dip tray.  Of course what my wife doesn’t seem to understand is that NOTHING in life is free . . . there’s a reason she’s come home with two free bottles of Pinot Grigio, and that’s because she’s just spent $320 on wine at the local wine store.  My wife is wicked smart, but she’s failing to grasp the whole “free and complimentary” concept.

ANYWAY . . . in addition to her free three-pack of her favorite underwear and a free make-up remover she pulls out some mesh lingerie wash bag with a zippered top.  She explains that you put your lingerie in it, and then throw the entire thing in the washing machine and your “delicates” come out in one piece.  She hands it to me and says “Here, now you can wash my bras without ruining them.”  And I’m like “Fucking-A!  Great!”

And I’m NOT being sarcastic.

I’m all juiced about this.  I’m fired up.  Finally I can stop putting her stupid bras inside pillow cases and cinching them closed with rubber bands (yeah I came up with that on my own . . . not bad, huh?).

So I head straight downstairs, and get a load of wash going.  Put a couple of her bras in this bag thing, zip it closed, and throw it in the wash.  I’m giddy.  It’s a new toy.

AND THEN IT HITS ME. . . .

Maybe it’s time for another manhood check.  Maybe it’s time to see if the old ball sac is still attached.  Because there’s NO EXCUSE for what just went down.  I mean the last time I questioned my own manhood I was at rock bottom.  I was out of work and planning my day around the European soccer games on TV.

But I’ve done a full 180 since then.  Well okay maybe more like a 110.  I’m gainfully employed.  I’m working out again.  I’m shaving somewhat regularly, and I’m wearing fewer hoodies . . . honestly that was a major step in the right direction . . . I hate to admit it. . . . but it’s true.

Listen, I know men are built to eat, shit, fuck, fight and die, and I embrace that. Hell, I cherish that, but there are just some “manly” things that I don’t like to do.  Not just fishing, sunflower seeds and Las Vegas.  I don’t drink much at all, as I’m not crazy about the taste.  I don’t really gamble.  I used to bet on football games until not one, but two bookies ran off with my money.  I don’t like golf.  After years of playing sporadically with constant frustration and occasional heat stroke, I put away the clubs.  I haven’t gotten into a fight since my oldest was six and, unbeknownst to me, he was right behind me when I verbally abused a softball ump and unleashed a torrent of unbelievable language. Not my best moment.  Life has slowly curbed some of my more manly traits.

So I’m going to chalk it up to experience, not lack of manliness.  Except for the lingerie bag.  I just can’t explain that.