Actually, I've never been a man.
Turns out, I'm not anywhere half the man that my Brian is, either. To be more specific, I'm actually 4% of the man that Brian is. And just barely 4%.
Allow me to explain. Instead of a dinner party on friday night, we decided to do some family time (may or may not be similar to doing hard time, depending on everyone's cycles) and take the offspring to the pool for some sliding, splashing, and bonding. The pool is familiar territory for Brian. He actually likes being in shape, and proves his point by getting up in the dead of the night three times a week, slipping into microscopic lycra, and swimming like a maniac. (He's probably being chased by crowds of women, but that's another post).
All this to preface the fact that at the pool, I am like a fish out of water. I hate being in a bathing suit. I hate shaving. I hate being wet. I hate being cold. I hate the bright lights. I hate the mirrors. I hate all the resolutions I make when I'm at the pool, and then later reevaluate over a pecan sundae.
Now Brian has told me more than once how he loves to swim. How fabulous he feels after his laps, how rewarding the hot tub feels. How he normally does NINETY SIX lengths, but this morning had decided to round it off to the nearest hundred. I had smiled supportively, admired his rock hard thighs, felt appreciative that he had some diversions besides my dashing and tantalyzing beauty.
But then, on friday night, I actually stood ankle deep in wet water. Water that my Brian had mastered. He had subjugated its coldness, its depth, and risen like a sleek, muscled god-of-the-deep-and-cold-and-wet.
I felt myself hypnotically staring at the lap pool. I felt words rise out of me, unsolicited, unwise.
"I bet I couldn't make it for two lengths. Do you dare me to try?
You're not allowed to laugh out loud. You must repress your laughter, you must not bend over and require CPR after watching my lardass haul itself, gasping and wheezing, across that pool."
And so I saw myself waddling on over to the ropes. I chose the lane nearest the edge, so I'd be easier for the lifeguard to rescue. Fearing the cold, fearing the wet, I resolutely threw myself at that aquatic intimidation.
I made four lengths. I thought my heart would spill out of my heaving chest. I thought "jello" would pursue my thighs for a part in their next ad. Four. F-o-u-r.
Not that I'm competitive or insecure or anything, but that makes 4% folks.
Yep, four out of one hundred makes 4%.
Someday, maybe I could aspire to being half the man that Brian is, but for now, I'll have to settle for .04.