To most, I'm sure I appear to be the apex of manhood. I'm smart, healthy, devastatingly handsome, and just dripping with masculinity. But despite all that, there is a secret I hide, a secret that embarrasses me. But today...today I've decided to end the charade and out myself.
I am a pathetic male.
No, no, it's true. I know what you're thinking: How could a man who inspires such admiration in women and such envy in men be a pathetic male? Well, it's a long, shameful story, but I'm determined to exit the gloom of deception and enter the sunshine of truth. I know I'm betraying my gender, believe me, I know it. But I just can't take the secrecy one moment longer. One spear thrust of confession, and I can begin to rebuild my shattered life. Here goes.
I have next to no interest in sports.
There. It's out. Whatever gene necessary to induce sports fanaticism in males is missing from me. I am a freak, I know. Oh, I have a passing interest in the Buckeyes (they don't let you live in Columbus otherwise), but other than that, I am almost completely ignorant of all but the very rudiments of most sports. But that's not all.
I have zero interest in cars, except as reliable transportation.
I couldn't tell the difference between a Ford and a Honda if my life depended on it. All I want to know is does it run and is there gas in it. I am a mechanical retard. Once, as a young father with three little kids, I was asked what my dream car would be. I said a minivan. Yes, I am THAT pathetic. Of course, I passed it off as a joke, but I was never more serious in my life.
Some of you are probably wondering how I escaped detection for so long. It was simple really. I discovered something that granted me instant expertise and competence in my areas of deficiency: wild cards. It happened long ago, before my kids were born. I was listening to a discussion about baseball on my car radio on my drive home from work, not because I was interested, but just because I wanted some noise to keep me company. One of the commentators bemoaned the performance of some team, and the other said, "Well, even though their record is pretty dismal, they still might have a chance at a wild card slot."
I'd never heard the term before, and I didn't (and still don't) know what it meant, but it stuck in my mind. I few days later, a co-worker carped about how awful his team was doing. I said, "Well, don't worry, they still might have a shot a wild card slot."
The man's face lit up. "Yeah, I didn't think of that! That's right! It ain't over til it's over!" He laughed and slapped me on the back as he left for lunch.
That was it. One little phrase gave me entry into the male club. No more hiding and avoiding; I was one of the boys. From then on, whenever I found myself in a group of males that started to talk baseball, I listened for an opportunity to use my wild card. Invariably some team was doing poorly, and I'd chime in with "Yeah, they are pretty pathetic, but I don't think they've played themselves out of a possible wild card slot, have they?" And the conversation would spark on that possibility with me agreeing or disagreeing as the group determined.
It was too easy, and it was clear to me that I needed to build my wild card selections until I had a full deck, but finding a good wild card is a bit tricky. It has to be a fairly obscure term, but common enough that aficionados know it or at least heard it before. It most certainly cannot be so obscure that the aficionados ask me to explain it, but just enough obscurity to surround me with a cloud of knowledgeable-ness that quickly and quietly pervades the conversational atmosphere.
My next target was cars. Often, guys talk about their cars, what's wrong with them, and what they did to fix them, because all males (except hidden freaks like me) know how to fix mechanical things. Well, by that time, I had my dream car, a minivan, and it was running pretty roughly. I took it to the mechanic who promptly gave me my wild card for cars.
"It's your mass air flow sensor. You need a new one."
"Really? That can make a car run rough, huh?"
"Oh, sure. Definitely."
It was perfect! How common a car ailment is "running rough"? And how many people actually know what a mass air flow sensor is and what it does? I couldn't wait to try out my new wild card. The opportunity came a few days later.
"I just don't understand it," said one of my co-workers to two other guys. "I changed the spark plugs and the battery, and it still runs rough."
Enter the newest member of the male club. "Well, you know, it could be your mass air flow sensor. Maybe try replacing that."
"Hey, yeah...it could be. Thanks, John!"
"Don't mention it."
Please don't mention it. Just grant me my male club pass and forget about it. The last thing I want as a closet pathetic male is guys asking me for car repair advice. An embarrassing episode taught me that a generous dose of humility and a strong desire to remain inconspicuous is vital to the successful use of wild cards.
"I just bought this car a few months ago, and already, it's running rough," moaned a fellow to the group.
"Could be your MAF," said I.
"MAF? What's that?"
I gazed upon the mortal with just barely perceptible disdain for his ignorance. "Mass air flow sensor. It can make your car run rough if it needs replaced."
But pride goeth before a fall.
"Yeah? Would you mind coming over tonight and having a look? Like I said, I just got the car, and I don't even know where the mass air flow sensor is located on this particular model..."
"I...er...uh...love to, but can't. I just...I have...er...my MAF just went bad, and I have to fix it tonight. Sorry."
Oh, what a tangled web we weave...but no more. As I've grown older, I've grown accustomed to my deficiencies as a male like a comfy pair of shoes or pants, and they don't chafe me near as much. As matter of fact, I've felt a sort of perverse pride in them every so often. I think it's for the shock value, like a person with odd piercings, or tattoos, or a multi-colored Mohawk. Here, let me try another:
Chick flicks are my favorite kind of movie.
Heh, heh. Oh, yeah. But that's for another post.