A Nostalgic Super Bowl

One of my favorite days of the year is Super Bowl Sunday. Football is the only sport I watch regularly, and it’s because I always saw myself as a “potential” football player. Growing up, I was a plump and awkward momma’s boy who had large legs which easily chafed. Running was not my forte, and I only participated in sports for two reasons. The first reason was the delicious snacks which were handed out at the end of each match. In the 90’s, there were no thoughts of restricting sugar consumption or bringing “healthy” treats; parents would bring boxes of Little Debbies and cases of discounted cherry flavored Powerade. I would always make it my goal to move as little as possible so I wouldn’t have to apply rash medication and that I would have energy at the end to run towards the snack tray. This brings me to my second reason for loving sports – the ability to use my Zebra-Cake-Roll figure to body slam unsuspecting victims.

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Kids growing up come in three sizes: string bean, fat, or early puberty. All I had going for myself was a full waist which required me to shop in the Husky section at JcPenny. I couldn’t compete with the “early puberty” kids because their sheer mass and facial hair growth would intimidate the most confident “American Beauty” parent. My prey were the string beans. I despised these kids because they always made fun of my blubber thighs while simultaneously shoving their faces with junk food. I envied their metabolisms, and I sought revenge on them whenever possible. In every sport, it is inevitable that a person would fall to the ground or get tired and lay down. Whenever this moment struck a string bean, I would simply waddle over, and body slam them repeatedly. Cries would come from beneath my adipose, and a huge smile would always find its way to my face. Body slamming became my superpower, and I discovered that football was the perfect avenue for crushing unsuspecting foes. Unfortunately, there is a lot more to football then just body slamming and no “fat-boy” can compete with the ubiquitous “early puberty” kids who are drawn to the sport like mustached men to a playground. I eventually grew up and stopped participating in sports. My love for Little Debbies never went away, and I still missed those body slams. To fill this apparent gap, I watched football every weekend. Of course, you may be asking why I didn’t get into wrestling if I loved body slams so much? Well, I did enjoy Hulk Hogan and Andre the Giant, but my family was too cheap to pay for pay-per-view events and Juggalo makeup. Hence, football was my primary outlet, and I grew to love sitting on the couch with a bowl of ice cream and watching my favorite players: Jerome Bettis, Brett Farve, and Warren Sapp.

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Fast forward to last night’s Super Bowl. I didn’t have a party to go to so my wife and I watched the game together. The problem is that my wife was the “string bean” kid who I always despised as a child. She was the girl who ran circles around me and laughed at my bulbous thighs. To make matters worse, she was a “karate” string bean kid who filled every possible Asian stereotype. Christina would go to karate class, perform high kicks, and then go get a bubble-tea afterward. So understand, this is what I’m working with as my football viewing partner. I made it clear to her that there was no Pinterest allowed during the game and that she had to at least watch the commercials with me; somehow she ended up in the kitchen for an hour cleaning dishes and managed to find a Norwegian Cruise catalog to peruse while I wasn’t looking. I kept trying to get Christina’s attention by saying “this is a big play.” After the second half, Christina began to laugh every time she heard me say “this is a big play.” It became a joke between the two of us, and we actually enjoyed our time together through our mocking. I looked at Christina and thought to myself how much I loved her even though she was a string bean. The game finished and I smiled at my wife – her innocent face softly laying on the pillow. I thought to myself – “she still is just a string bean” – with a pillow as cushioning, I fell on her with a soft but sturdy body slam.  Hearing yells through the hallway, I got myself a sugary treat and took a deep breath of nostalgia – I checked for chafing and to my dismay turned to see Christina wearing her karate belt.

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Lucky Jim

Christina and I went to see the new Beauty and the Beast film a couple of days ago. I was not forced to see this movie and the sexy Emma Watson was not used as a bargaining chip. Disney movies bring me a lot of happiness and those catchy songs always bring a smile to my face. The only thing I didn’t like was the attractiveness of the “Beauty” and the “Beast.” Why did they cast such a good looking Bell? The whole point of this movie is not to judge people by their appearances. Even the Beast is attractive for a monster. I could think of a million things worse for Bell to fall in love with – Jabba the Hutt anyone? I like stories where two misfits fall in love – the nerds, the dweebs, the outcasts. I have always been between social groups my entire life. I get along with the jocks and the nerds: never overly obsessed about sports or comic books. I was a momma’s boy who primarily enjoyed the company of my parents – I could socialize but my special spot was always on the couch eating ice cream. All of these things were going through my head while reading my second classic, Lucky Jim by Kingsley Amis. In this story, Jim is an awkward professor who doesn’t fit in with anyone – he goes about the story in a perpetual state of social discomfort. Jim has no passion except for hanging out at pubs and complaining about his job. This was a story with my kind of character.

Jim, throughout most of the book, has the worst luck at work and in his social life: his job is on the line, his foreplay gets squashed, his jokes fall flat, his research gets stolen, his cigarettes run out, his drunken tirades end badly, his coworkers tattle on him, etc. Jim seems like he deserves most of these problems but at the same time it is hard not feeling bad for the guy. In the end, he does end up with a lucky break that made me not only happy for him but happy for myself. So many times we are conditioned to think that the best things happen to the most popular-beautiful-smart-sporty-(fill in the blank with a stereotype) people. A great example of this is modern day comedies. Who usually plays the laughing-stock? Is it a smart-sexy man or woman? No it is usually a fat actor who is a royal screw up. Thankfully, real-life is not a TV show and we can be a successful human being without having the attributes of James Bond or a Victoria Secret Model. Appearances and personalities are what make us special. Our weirdness is not a handicap but rather our greatest asset. Was Jim lucky or did he actually deserve the good things at the end of the book? Are we conditioned to think that success is the result of skill for the popular while success is the result of luck for the unpopular? It reminds me of the eagle who was always told he was a chicken – never attempting to fly and always pecking at the ground. Embrace who you are, spread those chicken wings and don’t apologize for their stubbiness – they’ll get you farther than you think.

Two Types of Men

Being a man in today’s world is really hard. There are two types of men out there: the doer or the payer. The “doer” is the type of guy who gets his hands dirty and gets the job done on his own terms. The “payer” is the type of guy who pays others to get the job done so he can pursue other activities. I fall into the category of the payer. I would much rather pay a person to put up a fence for my squirrel-like chihuahua than spend the whole day cursing at wooden posts. The problem with my “man” status is that I am a cheap frick. Being a cheap payer is the worse combination because I don’t want to change the oil myself but at the same time I can’t stand the guy asking me if I want an upgrade to synthetic for $89.99. This always gets me in trouble. Just today, I spent 2 hours snow blowing my driveway. A true payer would have someone plow it while he sat in a chair reading Esquire. Me on the other hand, spends the whole time dreaming of sitting down to a good magazine while I begin to pummel the side of the house with a bunch of pine needles that I never got around to raking. A doer would have cleaned all the pine needles off the house, laid a bunch of salt, and put orange markers near the grass to ensure snow removal accuracy; instead, I cursed those pine needles, left the job 80% finished and spent the next hour arguing about planting grass in the spring with my wife.

As a cheap payer I struggle with a constant envy towards the doer type. I say to myself, “Wouldn’t be nice if I enjoyed tinkering on a car?” or “Wouldn’t it feel good to shoot an animal dead?” Instead of enjoying the raw aspects of masculinity I spend my time looking for tire rotation coupons and informing my Dad about the health benefits of dark chocolate. Being a cheap payer is like being in masculine purgatory. I go into projects like a moaning preteen – in the end, the project never turns out sufficient and I can’t boast of any success to my wife. Here is a familiar play:

-Christina: “Jon, can you fix the paint chip on my car?”

-Me: “Um…I am actually writing a blog post so I don’t think so…”

-Christina: “Do it or I will get it professionally done.”

-Me: “Alright…” Three weeks later “I fixed your paint chip!”

-Christina: “Great how did you do it?”

-Me: “I bought some car-spray paint from Auto Zone. Do you like how it looks?”

-Christina: “I’m going to reread my Wedding Vows to see if there are any loopholes!”

So what is a cheap payer to do in a masculine world where you either wear Carhartt jackets and ride 4-Wheelers or wear fancy sweaters and drive golf carts? Honestly, I don’t think I will ever get rid of my cheapness and I don’t think I will ever enjoy working with my hands. My solution is to overcompensate my manliness in two ways: communication  and accepting help from others. I think men are lacking in these two areas and they fit right into my hobbies of reading and conversing. Many times the doers can fix material things but fall flat on their faces when it comes to emotions, conversations outside of sports, and asking for directions. I need to play to my strengths and be the guy who knows the right thing to say at the right time. The guy who knows what he is talking about but also knows how not to be a “know-it-all.” In respects to asking for help, I am going to use more YouTube tutorials, my Dad, and random strangers if I am in a quandary. Instead of feeling like a hopeless terd when trying to figure out a project, I can use the advice of others to empower myself and become motivated. Of course, the ultimate goal is to be a man who knows when its worth it to pay and not worth it to pay – a doer with the right priorities and the humility to seek out a friend. For now, the pine needles will stay and I will look online for DIY tree sap removal.