Well hello there, Readers. As always, welcome back to another week and another off season post showcasing my meaningless banter. I’ve got a housekeeping issue to handle with respect to a reader comment about last week’s blog and then I’ll get into the meat of this week’s post.
As is usually the case when I’ve got a lot going on in my work and social life, I tend to get distracted during the week and before I know it, it’s Monday and I haven’t written a darn thing and, what’s worse, I haven’t even pondered a good subject about which to pontificate. Shame on me, I know. However, Some Guy leads a busy life and as much as I’d like to trade it all in for a cabin in Montana sans electricity and running water in order to tap out my anti-government manifesto and live on kidney beans and rice, I’m not in a position to make that move quite yet. In short, I’m sorry I didn’t post on Tuesday. Sh*t happens sometimes. Now to that housekeeping thing I mentioned.
Before I get to the comment, let me apologize for the difficulty in leaving comments on the blog sometimes. That little problem has been under the “Known Issues” tab on my Blogspot management page forever now. I’m helpless to fix it, but I appreciate everyone’s efforts to get their comments on the site. God willing, the husky guy in the short sleeve shirt and tie responsible for addressing these types of issues will put his donut down long enough to fix it soon.
The following comment was left yesterday by an anonymous reader:
'That drink screamed high maintenance—as if the outfit didn’t—and I quickly prepared myself mentally to drop a ton of cash on dinner. “This broad had better put out,” I thought as I pictured waking up next to her with make up all over my pillow cases.'
I think you were at least semi-serious with this comment. I'd love for you to explain this male mentality which is very foreign for me as a female. I am not the type to go on a date in order to get an expensive dinner, [sic] I'd rather pay for my own dinner. I'm not trying to antagonize you, I appreciate you sharing with us what you really think.
Fair enough, Anon. Here’s your answer.
First of all, you didn’t “antagonize” me. I’m always open to Reader questions and comments. I’ve only ever deleted one comment after much thought and that had to do with some ridiculous Jewish vs. Catholic holy war a well-meaning yet misguided reader posted in a flurry of emotion. Your question is fair.
Second, I’ll let you know that just about everything I put into writing on this site should be taken with a big, fat grain of salt. I often use hyperbole in order to drive home my point, and the text above is a good example of me taking an extreme position in order to illustrate something that single men who date around regularly find frustrating. So what’s my point?
Being a man and going on a blind date with someone you realize within the first 15 minutes is not going to work for you is like going into a fancy spa for a massage and realizing within the first 5 minutes that the massage is going to be substandard: you have no choice but to lie there and make the most of it and you regret dropping $100 on it the second you leave.
I realized within the first 15 minutes of my date—prior to the conversation about “Daddy’s” money and the spontaneous defecation—that this girl was not for me. However, I’d already committed to a fancy dinner that was going to run me north of $100. That’s like you being forced to buy a dress at Neiman’s even though it’s the wrong size. The “put out” comment was the hyperbole.
Finally, as for your “I’d rather pay for my own dinner” comment, I’m not sure I see the relevance. If I ask a woman—or in this case, make the plans—on a date then I fully expect to pay, regardless if that woman is capable of paying or not. I have no problem if a woman pays for me provided she asks me out and even then I’d expect to pay for a couple rounds of drinks, parking, or whatever. I’m traditional that way.
It’s nice to go out with a woman who allows her door to be opened, takes my arm when I offer it, and let’s me take care of her, if not for just the evening. That’s not sexist or degrading in my mind. I don’t view women as inferior and I think most women appreciate those courtesies—if for no other reason than they are traditional things that show respect and consideration. Any woman who views those as some sort of sexist repression—in my humble opinion—has been reading too much Betty Friedan or simply wishes she had a penis.
The final point I’ll make about this subject is a regional one. Before I crafted this answer I asked several female friends what they thought about a guy opening doors, paying for dinner, and what they thought he expected in return. Surprisingly, three out of four of them—and these are all decent, considerate women—admitted to going out with guys they didn’t really like simply because they wanted the free dinner at a fancy place. One even admitted sleeping with a guy afterward because it was easier than telling him to go kick rocks. All of them admitted that this occurred in their early 20’s and made me promise to make the point that this was not the case any more. I was in my 20’s when the story occurred, so I think my assumptions were fair.
My lady friend from Minnesota did point out that every time she walks into a place to meet my friends and me, all of us jump up and offer our chairs, bar stools, etc. That’s just the way it works here in Austin. I can’t imagine sitting there pulling on a Lone Star while a woman stands there, purse in hand, with no place to sit. That’s rude. She pointed out that it works a bit differently in the Midwest and on the East Coast where she used to live. Fair enough. Perhaps I’m a victim of geography. I hope that answers your question. I do appreciate the feedback. With that out of the way, let’s get to it.
As I mentioned earlier, the busy nature of my existence has put a bit of a damper on my creativity as of late. In order to find time to really clear my head, I often jump on my mountain bike and ride for an hour or so or I go on a run through my favorite wooded trail down the road from my Stabbin’ Cabin—that’s what I call my place; however, I will more than likely have to rethink that in light of the acquisition of my Special Lady Friend. Anyyyyyhooooo . . .
On Saturday I threw on a pair of workout shorts and my “Cowgirl Butts Drive Me Nuts” t-shirt, loaded my bike on the rack, and headed to the trail for a “Brick” workout, which is a bike ride followed by a run. My plan was to ride the 15 mile trail and run 3 miles all while thinking about a topic for this week’s blog. Putting myself in that Zen place while mashing away on the pedals or dragging my tired bones the final half mile down the trail usually produces a few ideas. The pain sucks, but it’s cathartic and I have a very delicate love/hate relationship with it these days.
Normally, while riding this particular lakeside trail I wear an iPod which is invariably tuned into Pandora radio’s Chris Knight or Robert Earl Keen station. There’s something about riding around the lake listening to what’s known as Red Dirt music that puts me at peace. It’s like rubbing that one spot on a Labrador’s belly that puts him in a trance. However, about 3 miles into my ride I began to notice what would become a significant impediment to both my ability to complete my workout and my much needed entry into my special Zen trance. Like Pirsig before me, I was trying to enter the world of Zen and the Art of Mountain Bike Maintenance but I was being prevented from doing so.
Incidentally, if you’ve never heard of Pirsig or his book Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, check it out. It’s an interesting contrast between the Romantic vs. the Practical views of the world and how those views affect a person’s ability to function. Like Pirsig, I often find myself understanding both but torn between the two. He apparently wrote that book by waking up at 2 a.m. and writing for four hours a day for four years while working at his day job and catching sleep when he could. Remind you of anyone? Back to the story.
Because there is no delicate way to characterize my problem, I’ll just come out and say it. Because I failed to wear my normal Pearl Izumi biking shorts on my ride (I literally placed the two pairs I own into the washing machine before heading out the door) I developed a chaffing issue. My cotton boxer briefs—which, as you know, offer the comfort of a boxer with the support of a brief--were simply not getting the job done.
After several well-timed adjustments and the realization that a Desitin purchase was in my future I toughed it out and made it through the ride. The run was a lot easier to deal with, although because of the aforementioned adjustment, there was an uncomfortable yet manageable bouncing issue that occurred.
The long and short of it (no pun intended) is that instead of basking calmly in the deep corners of my complicated character in order to ferret out a profound topic or a humorous anecdote to write about, I spent the vast majority of the trip around the lake thinking about purchasing newer, more form fitting underwear. By default, that’s what you get to read about this week. Now let me try to make this interesting.
Now normally, I’m tougher than a two dollar steak. It’s common knowledge (in Austin anyway) that Some Guy has the strength of ten men (give or take 9 men) and I’d usually look past a seemingly small problem like some localized chaffing. However, the chaffing occurred in an area close enough to my wedding tackle that it couldn’t be ignored. I got home, showered, carefully applied ointment to the affected area, and headed immediately to Target in search of some undergarments suitable for my work outs.
In addition to seeking the aforementioned athletic undergarments, I was also in the market for a fancy new iPad2. After several unsuccessful attempts at dealing with the “Genius Bar” at the local Apple Store, I resolved to purchase it elsewhere. I simply got tired of milling around a crowded, counterless retail store filled with customers and 100 people in blue Apple shirts with an iPad in one hand and a headset on who couldn’t help me.
“Let’s set an appointment so you can wander aimlessly around our store for an hour in hopes that you’ll talk yourself into paying $35 for an iPhone cover even though you’re here for an entirely different reason, Sir.” Appointment? Dude, this is the Apple Store, not the dermatologist. F*cking help me. Whatever. I set off to kill two birds with one stone apathetic at the possibility of being the subject of the Target Break Room fodder as the guy who bought underwear and an iPad2 in the Express Lane. Again, whatever.
I got to Target, parked, and began my quest for the best athletic underwear that mid-level retail distribution could offer. I entered the store and immediately identified the “Men’s” sign displayed prominently from the ceiling toward the back of the store. As I was walking back there I grabbed a shopping cart and simultaneously answered my cell phone which started to ring. It was my close friend Chris who was in Colorado for the CU v. CSU football game. His old lady was primping and he had some time to kill before they headed out to the stadium.
Without realizing it, I again found myself in the exact state of distraction that I’d been trying to avoid the entire week. I was in mid-conversation with Chris when I arrived at the underwear section. In addition, I received multiple text messages from a friend I was supposed to pick up at the airport later in the day. He and his Special Lady Friend took a hop to the Midwest to meet the family and were about to head home. Multitasking, I talked to Chris as I read the text and simultaneously selected a couple packages of “Evolve 2pk No Show Athletic Trunk” underwear. In spite of my multitasking I did take the time to confirm that they were indeed a spandex and cotton blend which would provide the support had heretofore eluded me.
The next decision I made was an important one and—as I would later discover—one in which the margin for error was extremely narrow. Without providing the details, I’ll represent to the Readers that Some Guy’s waist is trim 31 inches; however, depending on the brand of jeans and the style I buy, I can purchase anywhere from a 31 to a 36 waist. I have long legs and it’s often tough for me to get stuff that fits the right way.
The general rule with jeans is that I try and buy them a bit loose in the waist to allow for shrinking, etc. By “shrinking” I’m of course referring to the jeans themselves and not certain parts of my anatomy. Conversely, the general rule with athletic underwear is that you get them a tad snug.
If you can’t understand why, I’m sorry, you wouldn’t understand even if I attempted to explain. In light of this rule of thumb (no pun intended), I selected the Medium size, which was for a 28-34 inch waist thinking that they would be sufficient to adequately secure the precious cargo they’d be tasked with protecting without risking sterilization. I smiled and went to purchase my iPad2 still on the phone with Chris.
I hung up with Chris because I’m an idiot when it comes to technology and I wanted to focus on my purchase. I ended up getting the 32G iPad2 and, so far, I love it. I’m still messing with the Apps and all but I’m glad that I blew the cash. After some iffy looks from the cashier and what I was certain was her making a mental note to relay my purchase to the other cashiers in the Break Room, I paid and left with my iPad2 and my new athletic underwear. Excited about the iPad2 I simply took the package of underwear out of the bag and put them into the backpack that I take to the gym each day.
Sunday was an off day when it came to working out. I did laundry, loaded some Apps on the Ipad2, and watched a little football before running some errands. That evening, I packed the same shorts I’d worn during my chaffing incident in order to preserve all of the experimental variables with the exception of my new underwear. I wanted to do a test run at the gym during lunch hour in order to see how they compared to my woefully inadequate cotton boxer briefs and it was important to me to test them under similar conditions.
I worked Monday morning and headed to the gym for a lunchtime run on the treadmill anxious to test my new trunks. When I arrived at the gym the stereotypical hot gym chick behind the counter greeted me and handed me a towel before pretending that she wanted me to “have a great workout today.” Look, I know that’s bulls*it but I appreciated the effort. I smiled and fought back the urge to tell her that I was about to test drive some new underwear.
I got to the locker room and began to undress while simultaneously avoiding eye contact with any of the other men doing the same thing. After all, I wasn’t in Ancient Greece or San Francisco and I had no desire to make any new “friends” in the locker room. I unbuttoned my shirt, took off my boots, and opened my backpack to get out my workout stuff.
I threw on the t-shirt I brought, removed my jeans, and prepared to replace my cotton boxer briefs—which were perfect for the office, by the way—with my new athletic underwear. I picked up the package, opened it, pulled out a pair and stopped in my tracks. Uh oh. At that moment, it hit me that I had purchased these things while talking to a friend on the phone and texting another friend via the phone and thinking about my Ipad. I had only looked at the material, the size, and noted the word “athletic” on the package. It never occurred to me to get a good look at the actual product I’d be putting on my body—in front of a bunch of dudes in the locker room nonetheless.
How shall I describe these things? For those of you resourceful enough, you’ve undoubtedly already Googled them and are probably laughing hysterically at the thought of me prancing around the Men’s Locker Room in them. For those of you who haven’t Googled them, let me describe them in detail.
They were white, tiny, and sheer with a pouch up front accented by a light blue and silver (yes, silver) elastic waistband and identical blue and silver trim around the legs. They were, in a word, as gay as the day is long. They looked like something Freddie Mercury would have worn on stage. Check that. Freddie Mercury would have found these things too gay to wear. Hell, Derek and the Boys in South Beach might be too masculine to don these things. I mean they were gay. And small. I actually checked the package again in order to see if the 28-34 was in centimeters rather than inches.
Not wanting to draw attention to my half-naked self, I quickly put the panties back into to backpack and realized that I had three choices:
A.) I could get redressed and walk out;
B.) I could work out in the cotton underwear and then freeball it back to work; or
C.) I could throw on my shorts and work out with no underwear.
For reasons still unclear to me, I chose C. For the next hour, I bent over, pressed, pulled, stationary biked, and stretched with no underwear on under an extremely baggy pair of shorts. I even took the time to help a woman who was confused as to the proper operation of one of the machines. Not wanting to alarm her, I chose not to tell her my little secret. I made it back to the locker room, showered, and returned to work with my underwear in place.
I can’t believe I’m typing this.
When I got home, I immediately began to undress in order to feed my curiosity as to my errant undergarment purchase. I pulled them out of the backpack and proceeded to put them on. Well, I proceeded to ATTEMPT to put them on.
As an aside, even with the obvious opportunity here it occurred to me that it’s this late in the post and I have yet to make my first anatomy joke. Allow me to correct that problem before I continue.
Now putting on what amounted to Men’s Boy Shorts was tantamount to stuffing an elephant in a shoe box. I might as well have been trying to cram my testicles into a key hole for crying out loud. In addition, my junk is huge. I’m mean it’s really huge. I went to Minnesota once and got excited and Paul Bunyon tried to chop it down. Huge, I’m telling you. I once went to a nude beach in the South of France and PETA showed up and tried to coax it back into the water. It’s giant. In fact, I have to yell “Timber!” when my erection subsides. It’s big. I once earned extra money when I got a summer job snaking the Alaska Pipeline. It’s gigantic. My junk is so big that IT has a nickname for ME.
Alright, that’s enough.
I finally managed to wiggle myself into these things and as I entered my bathroom and stared at myself in the mirror I actually started laughing out loud at myself. I looked like a five year old ready to play “Fort” with his brother in his parents’ bed. It was like my junk was wearing a straight jacket. It looked like Jack Nicholson in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. I half expected an Indian to come out of nowhere and smother it with a pillow before jumping out the window and running for freedom.
After assuring myself that I could never be seen at the Target Customer Service counter attempting to explain why I was returning these things, I resolved to simply donate them along with a bunch of other stuff I’d put in a box from my closet to the fire victims in Bastrop. My office building is taking donations and I plan to drop them off tomorrow morning on my way up the elevator. I’m certain some six year old will appreciate my generosity. For the record, I’ll be returning to Target in the next day or so and this time I’ll be carefully scrutinizing my purchases.
I hope you enjoyed reading about my underwear. Until next time, if you need me, I’ll be packing them for my trip to meet Derek and the Boys in South Beach. DP