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Becoming A Dude…

I’m becoming a dude. I have a cold. I may be dying. It really is just sniffles, sore throat and aches. Standard cold stuff. My brain signals death is eminent. And then it hits me. In my old age, I’m becoming a dude. You might be too.

Think about it.

Ten, not to mention twenty, years ago, you got sick and said, “Screw that,” went about your business, raising kids, driving carpool, making dinner, cleaning house, drinking some DayQuil and playing a set or two of tennis. Get sick now? Whine to anyone within earshot. Stumble around your house in sweats. Wipe your nose on the sleeve of your jams. Lay on the couch. Whine a little more. Blow your nose and throw the tissue on the floor.

There’s more. On Saturdays I get up early to watch Game Day and actually yell at the Guest Picker. I regularly tell Corso that he is dead to me. I know inconsequential stats of players that make no matter and recommend the best 30 for 30’s. I even sent a text a few weeks ago to a friend updating him on a show about his favorite football team. Then sent a reminder day of. You know, guy to guy affection.

The other day, in my haste and loathing of laundry, I threw it all in together. Some whites were kinda dingy at the outset and I wondered, if only for moment, if I couldn’t wear one of the blouses. Who is this girl? Old lady turning into a dude.

Out to dinner with the girls. Salad, salad, chicken breast and roasted veggies. My turn. “Can I please get the bacon cheeseburger with onion rings? Oh yes, I’ll have another Corona.” Whaaa? It’s football season and, well, Bama lost to LSU so all hope at a decent life is eviscerated. Why not have another beer?

The morning of my son’s wedding. Bama’s playing at 11; wedding’s not ’til 5. What the hell–I’ll do my own hair while I watch the game, alone in my room. Bride and maids are flitting about–I’m jabbing my head with bobby pins devastated that Tua may be out for good. My hair looked good but still. My son comes to the door.

“Mom, I can hear the game down the hall,” says he.

“Yeah?,” respond I. Quizzical look.

I get home from work, pull my bra through the armhole and let it lay where it falls and find the coziest, flanneliest, baggiest pants, fuzzy socks, a hair scrunchie wound round the mess atop my head and sink into the couch, feet on the coffee table, tv blaring. Good thing I live alone. My poor wife would smack me upside the head ‘cuz my first thought is, “What’s for dinner?” Like a cat’s gonna answer me. Dude behavior.

The cold pushed my awareness over the edge. Saturday night, out with Sisterella, thinking, “Am I getting sick? Ah, it’s just a cold. Have another margarita.” Ever sensible dude behavior. Go home. Awake early but fall back to sleep. Move from bed to couch and couch to bed to bath back to bed then couch. Whining all the way.

Become the annoying cougher at work. Desperate to lay my head on my desk. I have a little neck ache too. Is that a fever? Yep, the transformation is almost complete.

Does anyone know how to make soup? Can you bring it over?

2 thoughts on “Becoming A Dude…”

  1. Ha! You almost had me until you wrote the word Margarita! I can officially tell you, as a dood, that you are in no danger of turning into one of us. Also, you still know the bra trick. name a single man who has ever managed to pull that off!


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