Monsters under my mucus

I'm not sick. I'm not. I mean, yeah, I have some issues I should be dealing with, but who doesn't? At least I'm not sick. In fact, I've been fortunate this cold and flu season. Four days of wishing I was dead (in Las Vegas and Cincinnati, no less) was all I had to endure. It was a bad-ass illness, to be sure. For me, though, it was up and down relatively fast.

Relatively, you say? Well, yeah. Most people I've met have been dealing with it for a long, long time.

Right now, I'm sitting in the dark. I mean dark-dark. No lights, no TV, no radio LED display. If not for the light of this computer screen (and the ever-so bright light of my achey-breaky heart), I couldn't see anything. And maybe it is the dark that has me a little paranoid, but I'm thinking there has been a little something odd about this season's colds and flus.

Now, it's a given...I get around, govn'ah. I meet all kinds of people in all kinds of places. And, yeah, many of those places are not the cleanest of joints. Regardless, I've not known many people who have not suffered some dread disease this year. And most of them have described it as a lingering death march from the local drug store, to bed, to work, back to the drug store, to the doctor, and eventually to a priest for last rites...you know, just in case.

Now, maybe it's just that my fortunate life has led me to be acquainted with people all over America. Maybe I'm just a little more exposed the maladies of the country at large. Maybe it's just that I'm sitting in the dark at 2:30am. But, this year seems a little odd to me. It seems to me that more people are getting sick this year, they are getting sicker, and they are staying sick longer.

I remember one paranoid night in my garage about 12 years ago when I was talking to a med student friend of mine. He laid out the case for how our overuse of antibiotics was eventually going to make us terminally vulnerable to germs and bugs. I'm not saying that's what we're dealing with here, but I've seen more otherwise healthy people bedridden this year than I've ever seen in my life.

I got rather lucky. While my early December bout with the bug made me wish I dead for 48 hours, I recovered rather quickly. Many other folks have not fared as well.

So, I ask you, delicate reader, am I just being paranoid because of insomnia, darkness, evil spirits, and the ghost of Christmas past? Or do you think something is going on here? Because, I'm not one to go looking for monsters under the bed, but if they start knocking in the middle of the night, I'm at least going to take a peak and make sure they aren't sharpening their fangs for me.

Lapsed

There was a time in my life that I didn't go. When I was a kid, it was something that happened on a regular basis. Then, in my teenage years, I stopped going completely. It started as rebellion and later devolved further into pure laziness. I'd tell myself I was too busy. I'd tell myself I didn't need need structured, organized involvement in the scene. What's more, among the crowd with which I hung out, the entire concept was something that wasn't discussed.

A couple of years ago, without really telling anybody, I started going again. I had my own reasons. My father had been sick. I'd just had a kid. My life was in a pretty odd place. I felt that I needed the structure and organization in my life. So I went.

In recent months, I'd gotten lazy again. Life had been very busy. With five out of eight weeks on the road, I told myself I could get by. Then, Monday morning, I looked at myself in the mirror and didn't like what I saw. I was a mess. There was something hollow in my eyes. What was worse, my head was a mess.

So, I went to get my hair cut.

When I walked in, I scanned the empty place for Michael, my bald, effeminate hair guy. I saw him in the back, nuzzled up against a guy with only slightly more hair. Stephanie, an eager new stylist, ran to the front of the store and started escorting me to her chair before I could insist on using Michael. See, that's the the thing. Several months ago, after losing my stylist in management-change dick-swinging contest, I found a new hair cuttery and Michael. Though he pressed against me more than your average stylist and spent a lot more time massaging my scalp, he cut a mean head of hair. After the first two cuts, I told him he was my man. (I felt confident in doing so after learning the Rev. Ted Haggard emerged from three weeks of intensive counseling and was now "completely heterosexual").

But, on this day, I didn't feel like waiting the extra time it would take for Michael to finish pressing up against his current subject. And, so, on with Stephanie.

I am not, nor have I ever been a Catholic. However, I have Catholic friends and watch a lot of TV. If I understand correctly, confessions usually begin with, "Forgive me father, for I have sinned. It has been six weeks since my last confession." In my coiffed world, it's not much different. A good stylist will know by looking at you how long it has been since you were last under the hinged knives.

I really didn't think I had that much to confess, but Stephanie was not going to let met slide.

"You usually don't keep your hair this long," she said.

"No," I confessed. "But I've been on the road a lot recently."

"Mmm-hmm," she said. "And so, how are we going to do this?"

"Scissor-cut the sides and back pretty short, the top not as short, but still short, take most of the bangs off, bring the sideburns most of the way up," I said. With Michael just a few feet away, it was like directing a stripper--or worse, a prostitute--while my wife was watching.

"You don't like clippers?" Stephanie asked, already underway with the clippers.

I struggled to say what I really meant. "Well, some people use clippers for speed...I mean..."

"You mean you don't trust people to use clippers," Stephanie said and kept cutting.

She worked her way through my mop and finished in record time.

"How does that look?"

My face twisted up in the mirror. I felt cheap. Michael was clipping his subject's hairs one at a time to make sure everything was even.

"You know how it should look," Stephanie said.

Of all my sins, I'd always managed to avoid two of the biggest ones. It was on this day that I realized I was both vain and a hair adulterer.

With Michael pretending not to hear, I directed Stephanie to take more off the top and bangs, put some product in it, and let me see how that looked. She did and I did and we did. And we did it all in front of Michael. I felt sick to my stomach. Part of me wanted nothing more than to run out of the store before I made eye contact with Michael. Part of me wanted to be sure my remaining hair was properly styled. This had to be something like watching porn on a video iPod in church. You know you should stop before somebody notices, but, hey, the money shot is coming up.

I paid Stephanie and was in my car before Michael had lovingly dusted he hair from his piece of art. I drove home feeling dirty, like someone who had converted to Satanism during Midnight Mass.

I remain, today, confused.

***

Special good wishes go out to Jen and John who finally decided to make honest women of each other...or something like that. Crack reporter Amy has the details (and a nice photo of the niiiiiiice ring) over at Calistri's Corner.

By Mennen

I can't remember where I read it, but for some reason I believe that Adolf Hitler was so concerned about potential body odor that he went to extreme measures (I think it was surgery) to alleviate perspiration. Of course, I may be making this all up. All I know is that about ten days ago, I was thinking about Hitler as I walked down the Las Vegas Strip.

It was warm that day and I'd just inhaled some lettuce wraps from P.F. Changs. It was a short walk to the MGM Grand, but by the time we were halfway there, I was sweating.

"Motherfucker," I muttered under my breath. The expletive was fine. Some people may say Vegas is a family town, but, the way I looked at it, if my friends can get rolled by a hooker and wheelchaired back to their hotel suites in this family town without a blink from the Convention and Visitors Bureau, I can mutter a curse word under my breath without fear of reprisal. Hence, "motherfucker."

I have a bit of a paranoia about how I smell. I rarely wear any scent, prefering just to smell clean. The last thing I want, however, is for my deodorant to fail me on any given day. I've spent years finding the perfect antiperspirant/deodorant combination. Without it, I fear that, in short, I might smell bad at any moment.

On this particular day, my hurry to get to the MGM poker room made me forget the third step in my post-shower ritual. Not sure how it happened, but I blame the Transportation Security Administration's 3-1-1 War on Moisture. My Right Guard Clear Stick Antiperspirant Deodorant was in a one quart bag and not right in front of me. It didn't make it to my pits, which, in my estimation, was the pits. Or something.

Now, I was already sweating and my day had barely begun. Walking back to the Aladdin to re-shower and apply the necessary product was an option, but in light of the limited time I had to play that day, I didn't see a trip back to the hotel room as a viable solution. I decided I would stop in at the gift shop in the West Wing of the MGM and buy whatever they had there. As the West Wing is a decent section of the MGM, I had high hopes. Cost be damned, I said.

Well, cost at least be slapped around a little bit, because as I was announcing the problem to my walking mates, they began betting on how much I was going to pay to not smell bad all day long. Somebody set the line at $5.00 (around twice the going rate for my regular product). I can't remember who took what side, but I was hoping whoever took the "over" on the line would trip over a curb and land in a puddle of my sweat.

The sundries shop in the West Wing is right inside the back doors where we normally walk in. Within seconds of hitting the conditioned air, I was looking at the appropriate sundry shelf.

"Motherfucker," I muttered again, this time a little louder and in the direction of the chick behind the counter. "This is all you have?"

She nodded.

The only male deodorant on the shelf was none other than original scent Speed Stick (by Mennen!). There were so many problems with this, I almost walked out and went back to my hotel. First, it was only deodorant and not antiperspirant, which means I was going to be sweating down my sides all day long, the sexy bitch that I am. Second, it was fucking Speed Stick, which meant, regardless of whether I was sweating, I was going to smell like a guy I lived with in college who swore by Mennen products. Third, the container cost $5.05.

"Motherfucker."

By and by, though, I stood in the men's room, at a urinal no less, applying Speed Stick to my pits. The smell hit me like several years of college at once. Anyone standing within a three-foot radius of my arms knew I was wearing Speed Stick. It's one of the most distinctive male products on the market. The only thing that would've been more obvious would be wearing Aqua Velva. Or a toupee.

But, poker player I am, I persevered and made it through the day. Sure, I occasionally muttered profanity and declared to anyone who listened that I smelled like a specific college roommate. But, after five hours or so, I got used to the smell. It was like home. A very, very smelly home.

The unfortunate smell lasted the better part of the afternoon and until I could get back to the room to clean up for the dinner mentioned in the previous post. Finally I was able to smell like I wanted and get rid of the college smell.

Or so I thought.

My wife is the queen of laundry. If I could find a crown made of dryer sheets and clothes hangers, I would put it on her head. She can get get stains out of mud pies. As for smells, something with which the mother of a toddler is quite familiar, she is an expert in stink removal.

Which made it all the more surprising when I put on one of my favorite t-shirts yesterday morning and realized that I just didn't like the way I smelled.

Somehow, through some fucked up quirk of science, the Speed Stick smell had managed to live through Vegas, a plane trip, a week in the hamper, a wash, a dry cycle with a Bounce Febreze Fresh Scent sheet, and a couple days in my closet.

Now, there's a part of me that has to applaud Mennen for producing a product that can apparently survive nuclear winter and the second coming of Christ. I mean, that takes some serious science. Still, there's another part of me, a part that is exceptionally sensitive in the olfactory area, that just wants his shirt back.

I'm not sure I can beat the science, though. Even Hitler would be impressed.

Secrets

There was only one other guy there. He was unkempt. His shirt hung untucked over his gut. The mop on his head hadn't been cut in some time and it was obvious he'd combed it in a way to hide an ever-receding hairline. We looked at each other, but said nothing. There hung in the air an unspoken unease with how we were handling this particular ugly necessity. We were both there to satisfy something that was embarassing. If we actually went through with it, we both knew it would give us a certain amount of pleasure. We also knew that if we did it, we wouldn't want anyone else to know.

I didn't nod at him and he didn't nod at me as we looked at our choices.

***

I turn 33 years old today. As I said to a friend the other day, birthdays have reached a point at which they are no longer exciting, but neither are they all that depressing. Thirty-three, I've come to accept, is not all that old. Sure, my life has changed a lot in the last decade. Sure, I look and feel older than I once did. But, when it comes down to it, barring bus accident or an unfortunate run-in with a billiards gambler and a pool cue, I stand a chance of living for a good long while if I can take care of myself.

"Condolences," my friend said.

***

I looked over my shoulder to see if anyone was looking. The other guy left me alone. I knew I'd been standing too close to him. If someone had done the same thing to me in that situation, I would've left, too. I was sure there was some protocol for these situations, but I'd never been there before. I didn't know. At that point, I just wanted to make sure I didn't see anyone I knew.

I feel dirty, I thought.

The wife had sent me out to pick up a few things for our only child and I ended up considering something that, if I actually went through with it, I would never tell my spouse about.

A man's needs change, the rationalizing part of my psyche assured me. It's okay. What happens here, stays here.

***

I saw Tracey over the summer. She's as tall as me and is humble about how beautiful she is. No one who has ever met her, least of all me, can deny that she is one of the most striking and approachable people you will ever meet.

I hadn't seen her in a long time. We'd parted ways under good terms many years before. This summer, she came into town for a mutual friend's funeral. Many of the mourners retired to a bar after the service. Though I knew we were in a crowd, I had to say something to her. After an hour, I walked through the crowd and waited for her to finish a conversation. Finally, she turned to me with a small smile and pulled me into a warm embrace.

The last time I saw her, she had dressed and done her hair differently. In the years that had passed, she'd worked in the big city. Now, she was startlingly cosmopolitan. She told me she was going to work for a boutique PR firm in the city.

I looked different, as well. Five years before, my hair was longer and made-for-TV. I had no facial hair and I weighed 15-20 pounds more.

"You look good," she said. She reached out and fingered beard on my chin. "I love how you're not doing anything with the gray."

***

Vanity is a bitch.

What's weird about it is, back when I was regularly in the hunt, I paid litle attention to my appearance. My hair grew to my shoulders, my weight was directly proportional to the amount I was drinking (a lot), and I would go days without making the acquaintance of a razor. Even when I was still working in television (the time of my life when appearance was pretty important), I didn't take exceptional care of myself. I could've looked better than I did.

Since the kid was born, I've found msyelf inordinately concerned with how I look. Though a wedding ring is welded to my finger and I rarely go to bars where women hang out, I spend a lot more time in front of mirrors. I trim, scrub, and preen. I found a fancy, bald man who knows how to cut my hair and does it with precision (if a little too much time and proximity).

It's all a little sad.

***

This is sad, I admitted to myself. I shouldn't be doing this.

Now alone, I could satisfy this male necessity. It would cost more than I expected, but if I paid in cash, my wife would never know. Ever since Tracey had returned to the city, I couldn't think of anything else. My wife couldn't help. As much as I loved her, she was powerless.

You know, spoke my reasonable side, she'll know. She'll either smell it on you. Or she'll find some sort of CSI-trace-transfer scientific bullshit. She'll know.

I couldn't argue. Chances are, even if no one saw me, even if I paid in cash, even if I was able to be sneaky around my wife, she would figure it out.

Alone, I was forced to make a decision. I wouldn't likely have this chance again any time soon.

I can't believe this, said my rational brain.

And then everything went silent.

***

Later that night, I sat on the couch next to my wife. She looked at me adoringly, like she loved me and would love me regardless.

I broke.

"I have a confession to make," I said.

The look on her face was one of controlled worry. She's put up with a lot in our ten years together. She knows I have a tendency to flirt with the deep end. However, I've never given her any reason to believe I would go where I'd been in the past 24 hours.

"Okay..." she said.

"I spent a little time in the Just For Men aisle at the grocery store today."

My visison was clouded with relief. I'd said it. Now it was out there and I couldn't take it back.

But, the look on her face was more than I could bear and I looked away.

***

In the end, I couldn't do it. I couldn't bring myself to buy Grecian Formula, Just For Men, or any of the other products on the shelf. It wasn't just the embarassment that went along with it. It was the fact that, if I had actually gone ahead with it, I would've be admitting that I'm actually concerned about not only getting old, but looking old.

Some people might suggest that even walking into the aisle is a tacit admission of defeat.

Me? I'm just proud of myself for walking away with what little pride I have left still intact.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to exfoliate.