Strong Enough For A Man

High School begins at 7:30. Everything is new and simultaneously familiar. Students in shirts with straightened hair, giggling about printed names of teachers on their schedules. “Who’s Frau?”

Other questions and accompanying giggles: “Where’s Smoker’s Corner, who do you have for resource, where’s Colby, he better be here soon, who’s that on the Vespa?”

A teacher that I know pulls up on a white Vespa, like I said I was going to do.

In 1974 I started Kindergarten, the Tuesday after Labor Day, and each year until now I put a shirt on and ate something sugary. I brushed my hair until I realized that sculpted looked stupid; so I parted with puffy and traded bristles for Brut (spray deodorant). The cold burn by Faber-jay did little to reduce the constant worry I had about having offensive odors and nothing to address the anxiety I had regarding the rancidity of my bizarre breath. The command of “Partnering up,” produced a particular stomach ache which worsened with age and swallowed gum; yes I’d gulp my gum down instead of being caught red-tridented.

1. Eventually coffee somehow hid my halitosis, and it was me telling students to find a partner; interestingly they often seemed to respond enthusiastically. 2. Eventually I switched from Brut to Secret, calculating that “gay” accusations from my dad was tolerable compared to the fear of never making out with someone who had boobs but no balls.

Determining that “strong enough for a man, but made for a women” was how I first realized my suspicion of irrelevance. That familiar cold Brut spray served no purpose and as far as I could tell neither did I. Too young for an existential excuse card I determined myself to finding my path of purpose. In preparation I considered swiping my tongue with girl’s deodorant; I’m not saying one way or another if I did/do.

In college I went back to school earlier than Labor Day but nevertheless I did wear a shirt and sip coffee. I also made-out with several boob/no-balls babes, always swallowing my gum right before the point of imminent smooching. Wake Waka as Fozzy Bear would say.
(Insert picture of Fozzy Bear here).

Now it’s 2017. My stomach isn’t sore and my breath isn’t bearish. I’m at school to drop off my sophomore daughter and her two friends. She’s beautiful.

I could sip eternal coffee, snap photographs, and listen to La La Land; or I can consider what comes next, on this Tuesday and subsequent Wednesday, without school.

I’m not a teacher; I donated all of my khaki pants. Dare I go pant-less through this preponderance? The rhythms of living are unchanged, but harmony separates stories from slow moving streams, and silence graced with sparkle segregates stars. All I know in this world lays ahead if this moment, the Tuesday after Labor Day; my coffee, their shirts and straightened hair, a Vespa not mine, and a life I’m here to discover.

(Deodorant tongue? No never; for goodness sakes).

Thanks for reading or rereading – Partner up horny sickos.


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