Okay, so here, maybe, is part of the problem with this training in masculinity. On my run today, I ran through an intersection where I had almost been hit once. I recalled that moment, and how the schmuck who'd almost hit me got pissed at me because his cell phone fell out of his hand when he slammed his breaks -- despite the fact that I'd had the right of way.
That was four years ago. In the middle of today's run, during a particularly blissful moment, I ran through that intersection and recalled that honking, swearing fellow. For the next mile, mile and a half, I obsessed about an altercation that never happened. I imagined him getting out of his car, some nasty words, a scene from Rocky, a culmination of me breaking out seventeen-or-so precise martial arts moves that (I hope) I've picked up over the years by watching Jean Claude Van Damme movies.
In reality, I tucked my eyebrows and gave him my most expressive frown, indicating neither that I was sorry or he was forgive, but that he's probably the dumbest person in this hemisphere . . .
To what end does my (real or imagined) response lead? The more I thought about what a jerk the guy probably was all the time, and certainly was that moment he swore and bird-flipped me, the angrier I got. I calmed down again as I reminded myself, as I had reminded myself during the earlier run, the guy probably had a bad day or, more likely, has simply had a bad life.
Beyond that, yes, okay, I was raised tough, but I don't fight. I don't lift weights. I don't do push or pull ups. I've, admittedly, and, rather happily, gone soft. What am I going to do if some meathead rips the door off his Blazer and beats me over the head with it?
That was four years ago. In the middle of today's run, during a particularly blissful moment, I ran through that intersection and recalled that honking, swearing fellow. For the next mile, mile and a half, I obsessed about an altercation that never happened. I imagined him getting out of his car, some nasty words, a scene from Rocky, a culmination of me breaking out seventeen-or-so precise martial arts moves that (I hope) I've picked up over the years by watching Jean Claude Van Damme movies.
In reality, I tucked my eyebrows and gave him my most expressive frown, indicating neither that I was sorry or he was forgive, but that he's probably the dumbest person in this hemisphere . . .
To what end does my (real or imagined) response lead? The more I thought about what a jerk the guy probably was all the time, and certainly was that moment he swore and bird-flipped me, the angrier I got. I calmed down again as I reminded myself, as I had reminded myself during the earlier run, the guy probably had a bad day or, more likely, has simply had a bad life.
Beyond that, yes, okay, I was raised tough, but I don't fight. I don't lift weights. I don't do push or pull ups. I've, admittedly, and, rather happily, gone soft. What am I going to do if some meathead rips the door off his Blazer and beats me over the head with it?
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