It all started last Friday night. I was lying in bed with a lady friend; it had been a good night, but there was an insecurity still nagging at me. And so I rolled over, and said, "Where is this relationship going?" She screamed and jumped out of bed. I froze--the next thing I knew, I had a face full of clothes. "Put them on and get out! Who says that? What kind of man are you?"
And so I stumbled out the door, one leg in my Levis and my shirt on backwards; in that state, I couldn't quite figure out exactly what I had done wrong.
I needed a cold shower; I needed a hug; I needed someone to hold me and say it was all right. But most of all, I needed a drink.
The drink, at least, was soon taken care of--I worked my way into a Friday night party and, like the gold at the end of the rainbow or the Tootsie Roll center of a Tootsie Pop, got my hands on a handle of vodka. It goes without saying that I was in no condition to drink it straight, so I naturally asked for some sort of mixer. "Try Snapple Sweet Lemonade," said a voice from the crowd. So I did, and it didn't taste bad at all. As a matter of fact, it was quite pleasant, sweet even, just what I needed. And then I looked down. It was pink.
That was when I knew. In one night, I had asked where this relationship was going, and now I was drinking a pink alcoholic beverage. Nausea overcame me. My God--I'm a girl! I had to reclaim my masculinity.
Saturday:
No more pansy, mixed, Snapple, sweet-tasting, girly, pansy drinks for me! Nothing puts hair on your chest like alcohol, and nothing puts really dark, thick, luxurious hair on your chest like straight tequila. And nothing puts more thick, luxurious chest hair on your chest than five shots of tequila.
It was with such manly bravado that I marched right up to the first frat party I could find, threw open the door, and bellowed in my manliest voice-"I want a quintuple shot of tequila! Please."
Sunday:
It didn't go as planned. I think I woke up next to a Kappa Sig. Of course, I was disappointed and more than a little ashamed. Alcohol had failed me, and my chest was none the hairier. But if there was one thing I still knew, it was that the only thing manlier than tequila was lifting weights, lots and lots of weights to make up for lost time. With my shirt off.
I had never been in Card Gym before, but quickly got directions to the bench press. I really wasn't sure how much a manly man was supposed to lift, but I did see a bunch of weights marked "50." I figured three on each side would be good for a warm-up.
Monday:
I woke up next to a Kappa Sig again. "What, you don't remember?" he said as soon as I started throwing on my clothes from the gym. "You asked me to spot for you, but you were trying to press way too much, and you passed out. I carried you back here, and I guess one thing just led to another. So we're cool, right?" No, we were not cool. I'd just been going about it all wrong. How can I make myself more manly when I didn't even know what manliness was?
Here I had presumed that I could take a quintuple shot of tequila or bench-press 300 pounds without passing out, and look what it had gotten me for my trouble. What I really needed was some sort of example to learn from, manly men I could watch and emulate.Wrestling! Who's more built than pro wrestlers? And think of all the girls they get! If I was going to learn from example, I had to watch pro wrestling.
So I sat down in the Bryan Center TV room and flipped on Monday Night Raw. And believe me, I was absolutely right about those wrestlers.
I was admiring their well-defined pecs and how good they looked in all that spandex when I felt a tap on the shoulder. "Hey, are you a wrestling fan? That's great! I'm actually a bit of an amateur myself-lemme show you my sleeper hold!"
Tuesday:
Kappa Sig. I was about ready to declare defeat and resign myself to a lifetime of girliness. I had one last hope: porn. I thought I'd read somewhere that looking at porn made you a real man. I'd also heard that they sold Playboy in the convenience store under the Marketplace, so I decided to check it out. I got carded. And I didn't have any ID. So I broke down.
"I can't get anything right!" I sobbed. "I keep trying to be manly but there's nothing I can do and I always end up passing out and waking up next to a guy and it's probably going to happen again and I'm just going to be a girl for the rest of my life and now I can't even buy porn!"
But the clerk offered me a Kleenex and dried my face. "Hey, cheer up, buddy! It'll be all right. Listen, I'm in Kappa Sig--maybe we can work out a deal."
Wednesday:
I had an epiphany Tuesday night. There was only one thing to do, and so I rolled over in bed and asked, "Where is this relationship going?"
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