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David
Spates
"Therefore I Am"
Published Jan. 11, 2005 |
A real man pays cash
for egg rolls
What is a real man? Everyone has a different definition,
and I'm sure that in some people's eyes, I have fallen from the
ranks of real manhood. I quit my full-time job and stayed
home to raise our two kids. When I take them to the playground
at noon in the middle of the week, I'm the only adult male there.
Surrounded by a gaggle of mothers, some of whom give me odd looks,
I do the same chores the moms do -- I watch my kids, I hold their
juice boxes and I tend to skinned knees.
Despite swimming in a sea of estrogen, I feel as though I've
maintained whatever IT is that a guy needs to be a real
man. After all, a real man does whatever needs to be done
to take care of his family, right? I could work 40 or 50 hours
a week, but that's not what my family needs me to do. My family
needs me to parent my children, and so that's what I, a real
man, do. It's all about the team.
But sadly, despite my best efforts to shore up my real
manliness, I've come up short -- $3 short to be exact.
You see, regardless of the life experiences a guy wrestles
with on a daily basis, there is one overriding criterion he must
meet in order to be a real man. He must have at least
$5 in his wallet at any given time, and I did not.
I was driving around town running some trivial errands without
anyone else in the car. The kids were home with the wife, and
I was out and about just doing my own thing. I was hungry, but
rather than go to a fast-food dive and subject myself to yet
another heat-lamp burger, I decided to call a nearby Chinese
restaurant and place a take-out order. Since I'd be driving a
little while longer, I ordered a couple of egg rolls. An egg
roll isn't my favorite item on the menu, but it's very difficult
to eat lemongrass soup and curry chicken while driving a stick-shift.
Concessions to modern times sometimes simply must be made.
The Chinese place has a pick-up window, so I rolled up and
reached for my wallet. That's when the sinking feeling set in.
I didn't even have to open the wallet. I knew I was tapped.
"That will be $3.19," announced the Keeper of the
Egg Rolls.
As beads of sweat began to form on my brow, I shamefully reached
for my credit card. It's bad enough that I had to pay a $3.19
bill with a credit card, but to make matters worse I felt as
though I owed the Keeper of the Egg Rolls an explanation. Why?
I have no idea. It's a guy thing. It's stupid.
"I'm sorry," I began, immediately knowing that the
next few sentences would be awkward and unnecessary, and yet
I was unable to stop myself. "I thought I had some cash.
I'll have to give you a credit card. Sorry about that. My wife
probably took my cash this morning and didn't tell me. I think
she had to buy some stamps."
The Keeper nodded his head. Sure, he's a guy too, perhaps
even a real man, but he had other things going on - lo
mein to oversee, plus who knows how many egg rolls. A chump like
me charging two egg rolls to his credit card wasn't too big a
problem.
But it was a big problem for me. I sheepishly signed my name
to the receipt, took the egg rolls and slipped away, less of
a man than I was two minutes ago.
In some ways, I suppose I'm not a typical guy. I don't care
that I drive a minivan. It doesn't bother me when someone calls
me Mr. Mom and thinks that's the first time I've heard it. I
could care less that my wife is the family bread winner. I don't
even change my own oil.
That being said, there's no getting around the fact that it's
embarrassing to put $3.19 on your credit card. You can rationalize
it all you want, but guys know what I'm talking about. I'm fortunate
I had an alternate source of egg roll funding readily available,
but that's of little consolation. I'm a modern man who should
be so headstrong and refined that a little thing like this doesn't
bother me, but there it is -- a $3.19 receipt for two egg rolls.
To add insult to injury, the wife saw the charge on our credit
card bill.
"What's this $3.19?" she asked.
I muttered something unintelligible under my breath and headed
straight for the garage to change the minivan's oil.
By myself.
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David Spates is a Knoxville resident and Crossville Chronicle contributor whose column
is published each Tuesday. He can be reached at davespates@chartertn.net.
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