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5 years ago I started running because I looked in the mirror and was disgusted with myself. I was 30 pounds heavier than I was when I graduated high school. Now, I'm 20 pounds lighter and 1 jean size smaller than I was in high school, and 50 pounds lighter than I was when I started running. It's been a HUGE self esteem boost, but to make sure I don't slip back, I keep track of my weight. In fact, before I shower every morning, I look at myself in the mirror, and then weigh myself. If it's just a few pounds heavier than I like, I'm once again disgusted. I calorie count almost every day. I . . . am NOT a man.
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More after the JUMP
Barring a fancy new customer coming to work, I wear jeans every single day of the year. I have 4 pairs. I rotate them, but I'm not afraid to wear the same pair 5 days in a row. Until they have a visible stain, or until they have a pungent enough stank on them, they're clean. I will wear them until they have enough holes to show my boxer briefs.
And holy crap, what a coincidence. As I wrote that last sentence, the Bret Favre Wrangler jeans commercial came on. While I may not enjoy backyard football in jeans, or a Top Gun volleyball game in jeans, I still do have an unhealthy need to wear them, under questionable cleanliness. I . . . am a man.
(and what was I watching in the background when that commercial came on? Monday night wrestling. Again . . . MAN).
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I bought each of my pairs of jeans after trying on 4-5 pairs before them and staring at myself in the mirror. Then I turned sideways and stared some more. Before going out, I put on one of those pairs of jeans, pick a T-shirt or dress shirt, and try it on . . . before taking it off and trying on another . . . and then likely another. I will continue this for whatever time I have remaining before I have to leave. I . . . an NOT a man.
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I spent the vast majority of October growing a beard. It was beautiful. Chicks dug it (specifically, chicks that snort granola).
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I spent all of October growing a beard so I could have a mustache and go as Tobias, a closeted never-nude, for Halloween. I cut the mustache with my electric razor, because I've never used a straight razor in my life. I might cut myself that way.
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Having grown up in Detroit, I was exposed to cars . . . a lot. The city has shit for mass transit because the auto companies run the area, and if you're an engineer, you're likely working for one of those companies. And being an engineer, of course I interned at some of the suppliers to the auto industry . . . and I was bored out of my mind. I also took an automotive engineering class at Michigan . . . and was bored out of my mind. The best part of a car to me? Last month, when I paid off my loan. Didn't matter what kind of car it was, just that it was now MINE.
It DOES matter to my dad. I drive a Nissan. He's driven American his whole life (like 90% of Detroiters). I'm pretty sure a little piece of him dies anytime I drive home from Boston and park my foreign monstrosity in his driveway.
So never having cared about cars, and having a family that never drove a car with an automatic transmission, I had never learned to drive stick. And this just perpetuated because A, I would rather drive with my knees while having a cheeseburger in 1 hand and a cell phone in the other (safety first!), and B, anytime I had ever mentioned to someone that I couldn't drive a stick, the conversation went like this
ME: I can't drive a stick
OTHER PERSON: What!?! How is that possible
ME: No one ever taught me. Can you teach me?
OTHER PERSON: What? On my car? Go to hell.
Luckily for me, my friend Malinda has a car shitty enough for her to let someone like me learn stick (and possibly ruin her transmission). So after work one day, we headed off to the local semi-empty parking lot, and I tired not to cause too much damage.
And . . . nothing blew up. So that was a win. Also wins? Getting into 3rd gear, and reversing myself into a parking space. Losses? The 5 or so times that I stalled out (though that was to be expected) and losing Malinda to another company, which means (obviously) no more Malinda at work, but also no more free lessons directly after work.
But, I learned to at least drive stick well enough to get a drunk friend's car home a few miles. So I . . . am a MAN!
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And then a few days later I went ans pissed away that manliness by participating in one of the most metro of metro activities - a mani/pedi. It was suggested by my friend Cathy, but since she lives 3000 miles away, I contacted the most obvious surrogate, Alycia (who can be seen in such list items as Psychic Readings and Trapeze Classes). Naturally, we started off at her place with an adult beverage or two, and and naturally, I drank it like a man.
Then it was off the mall. Having never gotten a pedicure before, I had no idea it included a massage chair. That was almost worth the price of admission right there, especially since the weekend immediately before our outing included Reach the Beach and a beat down to my feet. And considering I'm also a soccer player, which entails wearing shoes with minimal fabric and support, I expected the worst and waited for the technician (I have no idea what to call the workers there. Specialist? Servant? OK. I think I that one's definitely not the right word) to break out the cheese grater, but it never came (my friend and proud metro-ish male Ryan came out for the event too. He got the grater).
Having never gotten a professional massage in my life (that includes both the standard and the "full service) varieties), I felt a little weird getting a foot massage post-pedicure from the technician. I mean, I hated getting gas in Watertown when I lived there because they only allowed full service gas stations (and I mean having the attendant pump your gas, not the aforementioned "full service" included in some Chinatown massage parlors). But the technician never seemed like she had to hold back any dry heaves, so I guess I shouldn't feel too weird about it.
After the pedicure, it was on to the manicure. And while the combo of the massage chair and foot bath was certainly relaxing, the idea of sitting forward, extending my nails, and having them filed was just . . . uncomfortable. It was a daintiness that even my quai-metro-ness couldn't quite overcome.
Don't let the smile fool you. There is some uneasiness going on here.
I was offered any color of the rainbow for the final touch on my nails, but come on, I have to draw the line somewhere (I have a hard enough time with the ladies while NOT looking like a goth kid or Boy George). The final product was a smooth glossy shine, one that lasted a good 8 or 9 days before the typical tearing-off of the nails recommenced. But for a week plus, I was a real fancy boy. I . . . was NOT a man.
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