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| blogs.menshealth.com |
As I get older, I’ve come to come to accept many things
about myself.
For
example, as much as I enjoy them, I’ll never be very good at team sports. I’m
tall, spindly and highly uncoordinated. Hardly the recipe you need to be the
Michael Jordan of the beer league.
Another
fact of my life? I’m a mildly-powerful douchebag magnet, or “douche-magnet” in
technical terms.
Not too
powerful. I feel like most of the people I’ve drawn into my inner circle are
grade-A individuals. But just powerful enough that douchebags seem to always be
floating around the periphery of my existence.
I’m not
sure what it is that brings them in, maybe it’s my boyish face and inability to
grow a full beard.
One of
the places where this is most evident: When I’m out wandering the streets.
I get
more catcalls from passing cars or other walkers on average than a well-endowed
blonde lady jogging through a city full of construction sites.
Well,
maybe not that many, but still a decent amount considering how poorly-endowed
and dark-haired I am.
Usually
it’s just fairly unoriginal stuff about me making love to other gentlemen and
things of that nature.
For a
while there, it really kind of bugged me. Like, what was it about me that made
for such a juicy target? Or did I just have a knack for perpetually finding
myself in the crosshairs of people who wield gay slurs like Arnold wielded that
minigun in “T-2?”
It
still does bug me, to be honest. Hell, I’m going on about it here, so it
clearly bugs me.
After
all, when I’m in my vehicle, cruising the scene as I’m wont to do, I’m usually
doing one of three things:
- Singing along loudly and out of key to a song you haven’t heard since 1998
- Deep in thought while listening to a podcast, or
- Talking to one of my favorite people, myself.
The
last thing I’m thinking about doing is interjecting myself – either pleasantly or
not – into the lives of the people around me.
Still,
it doesn’t irk me as much as it used to. I’ve accepted it as my lot in life.
And as far as lots go, I could have drawn much worse.
And I’m
getting too old to concern myself with such matters. I’ve got two cats with a
total of seven legs whose very lives depend on me. That’s the type of
responsibility that force feeds some perspective into a man.
If you’re
the kind of person who enjoys involving himself – or herself, though I say that
more as a formality, we all know this breed of asshat is usually of the male
persuasion – ask yourself: “Where are my two cats with seven total legs?” Why
is my life so bleak that I feel the need to briefly darken someone else’s?
If you
are that person, I urge you, find your two cats with seven total legs before it’s
too late. Before you become the elderly version of the cat-caller: the old guy
on the block who’s too old to mow his own lawn, too poor to pay someone else to
do it and too much of a prick for anyone to help him out.
Spooooooky.
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