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.