What "Weaker" Sex?

When I was a fledgling young American male I bought wholeheartedly into the female-propagated myth that somehow women, those "delicate flowers" of humankind, were in some unexplained way the "weaker" sex. As a teenager I (very politely) opened their doors, handed them out of cars, carried books, picked up whatever was dropped, and in general escorted them throu life like a tugboat guiding a liner into a harbor. I did this because (1) my grandmother told me to and (2) I thought somehow I'd be rewarded with sexual favors (I WAS a teenager, remember). I had an experience, however, that disabused me of the fictitious concept of female frailty, which I will now painfully share.

I was 17, driving along with very little on my mind (I do that a lot) when I saw an attractive young girl in a convertible pulled over to the side of the road. This was a great situation, my fantasy went, I'd save the fair damsel and with any luck she'd reward me with the afore-mentioned sexual favors. I pulled in several feet behind her car and watched her open her trunk. To my great surprise, this 115 pound bit of fluff effortlessly picked up her huge spare tire with one hand and lifted it up in the air and onto the ground next to her car. She just as easily snatched up an oversized jack and with the same "frail" one hand reached down and set it up under the car.

Then she noticed me standing there, and an amazing transformation took place. She suddenly became the picture of helplessness. The tire, which she had previously blithely moved with one hand, could now not be budged with with both hands and with all her weight behind the effort.

"Sir," she said coyly, "Could you please help me? I've never changed a tire before." As I remember, she didn't actually bat her eyes, but it was close.

And, just like that, I got it. Female frailty was not a myth, it was a CONSPIRACY with we males totally involved, and I was about to enter into it. I looked at her long legs (cut-offs, don't you just love 'em) and her well-filled T-shirt, and said, "Of course I'll help. Let me just get this (oof) tire. Don't want you to get your pretty self all sweaty and dirty."

That damn tire must have weighed 60 pounds, I got grease all over me, and of course I never came close to getting favors, sexual or otherwise, from the sweet young thing.(Good samaritans rarely get laid). I did, however, learn a very valuable lesson about the strength of a woman. So when my wife asks me to open a peanut jar, or move the couch, or carry in the groceries, I don't ever hesitate. I know that she and the rest of the alien species with whom we males share this planet has more power (of all kinds) in her pinkie than I do in my whole body. I've never tested it, but I'll bet that any one of them could pound me into smithereens. Every once in a while, they let their guard slip and I get a small glimpse of their awesome force.

But I'm going to continue the conspiracy-you know why?...... because sometimes you could get sexual favors.

Later.

The Dreaded "C" Procedure

In case some of you were wondering where I've been the last few days, I have a horrific tale to relate. I've been subjected to the worst homophobic nightmare that a straight red-blooded American male can imagine. The very word sends terror into the heart of testosterone-dominated chauvanistic protective reflexes. That word is COLONOSCOPY.

The thought of some quack wielding a tool that can best be described as a plumber's snake with a camera stuck to it and shoving it deep into my body through a forbidden orifice in the name of medical science strikes me as the kind of insanity only found in mad scientist movies. The fact that the "benefit" of this torture is the early detection of cancer raises for me the question "what is the unbeneficial result?"--leprosy? They call this a "procedure", the definition of which is "a step forward". This didn't seem like progress to me, actually I felt that I was lying on the track watching the approaching locomotive.

To compound this disastrous situation, I was told to eat nothing but tasteless jello and liquids the day before the event, and nothing until my scheduled time on C-Day. Meanwhile, I had to take some Fleet stuff that drained me of all life-giving sustenance and kept me (like a felon's ankle bracelet) from moving more than 30 feet from the nearest john until thoroughly evacuated. Any shred of dignity was thereby banished from my system along with everything else.

On C-Day, a relatively benign-looking individual identified himself as my colonoscopy (that word, that word) physician. He didn't appear to be Dr. Mengele until he started telling me some of the things that could go wrong, like my dying after he accidently ripped up my colon or his leaving enough air in my body to cause excruciating pain for an indefinite period of time. THEN he hands me a waiver to sign. As I was about to call in the Marines, or maybe the Mossad, someone squirted a Mickey into my IV and I went out like a light.

I woke up later feeling fine but ravenously hungry. Luckily the nurse stayed far enough away so that I couldn't gnaw on her arm. I was told that they had found only one polyp, and that looked benign but would be tested. That polyp meant that I had to redo the procedure in 3 years instead of five. I have never felt such blind hatred for an innocent piece of flesh.

We stopped at Home Town Buffet where I ate them into a quarterly deficit. Other than some soreness in a delicate part of my body I had apparently escaped unscathed. I'll tell you this though, I'm never having a Brokeback Mountain experience no matter what Capote said.

Later.