Here’s the story of dating, scars and a burnt dinner.
Do woman really find scars attractive? I suppose if she really loves you, it doesn’t matter what you look like. Even if you’re involved in a radioactive explosion. Although you may find that she’ll be wearing a hazmat suit around you from them on. I don’t really have manly scars. This week I managed to burn my thumb on the oven. Really hurt. I have big blisters all over my thumb. Although only some of them are from that incident. The others are from the second time in five minutes I burnt my thumb on the oven. I don’t think a woman would be impressed by that. I do have another scar, on my left finger from when I fell on a fire. I don’t know if she’d consider that manly. She may think I’m stupid for not seeing a great big fire. But there are positives. I was cooking dinner when I burnt my thumb. Women like it when you cook for them. Although, on saying that, that dinner did give me an upset stomach so she may not have had an overly positive reaction to it.
I think there’s a line to be found. You can be too butch but equally, you can be too wimpy. Take last Sunday as an example. There I was, drinking my can of Coke (other drinks are available), watching British classic comedy Dad’s Army in glorious black and white (making me one of the few under 40s who can tolerate black and white, and, for that matter, a comedy that started 22 years before I was born). Suddenly, a butterfly came hurtling through my open window. Oh, how beautiful you must be thinking. Wrong, wrong, wrong. THEY’RE BLOODY TERRIFYING! Big black thing coming at you. They’re bloody vicious. I’m sure that was the inspiration for The Birds, because that’s what it was like. I forgot what they did in that movie so I did the logical thing and I threw one of my slippers at it. I missed, by the way, and I also lost my slipper out of the open window.
I was in a difficult situation, readers. I couldn’t kill it because that would be cruel. But I couldn’t do nothing because it was trying to kill me. And if I told a girl I killed a butterfly in self-defence she’d bugger off with the handsome chap down at Number 62. I think girls have too high an expectation of us men. They always talk about lack of equality, which is a valid point. But it works both ways. Why is butterfly killing the ‘man’s’ job? Oi, darling, you kill it.
Of course, the situation may be that neither of you are up for the job. Fair enough. Do what I did. Cower in a corner until the butterfly finds its way out. Then hurriedly run over to the window the butterfly came in through and your slipper flew out of, and shut said window to avoid a repeat of the scene. Then gaze out of the window and watch as the butterfly flies away to carry on its reign of terror elsewhere. And then gaze down to discover your slipper on the road next to the body of your neighbour’s unconscious dog.
I’ve never been on a date. Not the fruit. I’ve been on plenty of them. No, I mean a proper date. With a woman and all that. I don’t think I’d tell her about the butterfly incident. That may not end well on my part. But, equally, I couldn’t lie to her. Perhaps I should say nothing. I don’t know. Women can be difficult. I’ve never really had a reason to ask a woman out on a date. I suppress emotions and release them when I play my bowls computer game. It’s a surprising adrenaline hit.
That’s not to say I haven’t thought about what I’d do on a date. I’d ask her to the picturehouse followed by a walk with ice creams down the boulevard toward the lake for a spot of midnight duck watching. I think the reason I’ve never been lucky in love is that my idea of a date is stuck in 1935. Do women still like midnight duck watching? I don’t know what else to do. Ducks are all I know, man! What if it fails? What do I do if all the ducks in the world can’t save me! Tell me, readers, what do I do then?
I suppose I could do a little jig for her whilst humming the tune of Glenn Miller’s In the Mood. BUT THAT WOULDN’T WORK EITHER, READERS! She wouldn’t have even heard of a tune that was released in 1939. She probably wouldn’t even be aware there was a 1939! She’ll probably think it’s just a time on a clock. And I seriously doubt she’ll know that, either. That’s exactly the type of person I attract.
Maybe Glen Miller had the right idea. He’s dead. He died in a plane crash. That’s manly. The only time I’ve crashed was when the tip of wing of a plane I was in lightly tapped another whilst heading to the terminal at JFK. I can’t do anything right. I can’t even do crashing right. Not that I want to crash, that would be awful. I just feel like I’m missing something. Chutzpah. I wonder if I can get it telegrammed.
There’s no place for guys like me in this world anymore. I am a man out of my time. As Woody Guthrie once said, “I aint got no home in this world anymore”. He had a label on his guitar that read, ‘This machine kills fascists’. So he was rebellious. Good looking. Rugged. Could play the guitar. Hated fascists. Everything a girl looks for in a guy. What a wang.
So what if I’m not a musician? Who cares if I am out of my time? And does it matter if I’m not manly? I hate butterflies! I hate spiders, too! I hate a disorganized underwear draw! I hate the fact that I have been worried sick all week because my horoscope told me I would be run over on Saturday gone! Trust me to die the day AFTER Friday the 13th! You’ve managed to survive Friday the 13th only to be run over the next day! It’s ridiculous!
Mother and father are still away on holiday. I’m still here. Somehow. Despite a television nearly crushing me this week. Despite the fact I nearly got hypothermia from being outside during one of the many torrential rainstorms we’ve had lately. Despite the fact I bought gravy in the supermarket when I meant to buy mash. I shouldn’t be getting hung up over manliness because of a stupid butterfly. I should laugh it off like every other time I’ve been attacked by an animal. Like that time with that poodle in the local park. Or that time in Sydney with a lion. Long story…
That butterfly was merely a fly in the ointment. If there is such a thing as fate and it’s pushing and pulling me from every which way, I shall stand with grace and humility in front of its face, and proceed to stick my tongue out at it. And that’s manly. I’ve been doing it for 23 and a bit years. And during the remaining few days alone, waiting for mother and father to return from, erm, somewhere, fate can throw as many cars at me as she wants.
(Note to fate: this is a metaphor; actually throwing a car at me would be most uncool).
American poet, Ogden Nash (1902-1971), once said: “Progress may have been alright once, but it went on too long”.
Peace Out :|:
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To Contrive & Jive
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