So Then Sunday Twice – Apologies From Guyville

Every now and then I’ll do a random dive in the Attic, pick a month in the scroll down and then read whatever that month had to say “back in the day”, see just where I was at when I wasn’t old or at least when standing back up from a sit down with Bella now and a cat toy or crumpled paper ball or two wasn’t such a grunty, breathy production.

Today?

October of 2009.

(Sadly it seems I have regressed again, back to pre-relationship days, as the underwear I’m currently sporting are about ready to give up the ghost … again).

Apologies from Guyville

October 8, 2009

This entry in the “Attic” is really nothing more than a self observation and a note to my Maria because, as write this, I’m noticing that I’m very much in Guyville. I realize it’s stereotypical and it’s been written of and performed about in comedy so much so that it’s become boringly cliché’ but I’m in desperate need of a shave, I’m wearing a ratty t-shirt from, I think, my college days, old flannel pajamas that have holes that show glimpses of me that don’t need to be seen, not even by myself, and the underwear I have on are one thread away from not just falling off, but from simply ceasing to exist.

Shoes (the cat) is licking the condensation off the beer can and I’ve got on two socks that don’t match (they don’t just “not match,” by the way, one of them I don’t even think was designed for the human foot but seemed at least clean this morning). I’m definitely in Guyville but the problem is, of course, that I’m not the sole inhabitant of this mismatched sock shanty town. No, there is a better half now as well.

When I think about it the women in our lives certainly deserve way more credit than we give them because they continue to be the women in our lives despite us, as we roam around the house in just such outfits. When my Maria is in and just “around the house” she still looks quite fetching while I, as I’ve just described, look like a schlub. So a thank you is in order first and then, second, a plea is also in order to not toss the stuff (in Guyville NOTHING ever gets thrown away) if I promise to not answer the door in them, bible holders nothwithstanding, though that can be some fun if allowed.

I guess there is a comfort in these clothes that goes back to the genuine days of Guyville when I was by myself and just looked forward to being done with the day. Schlubbing at the end of it was always in order even if I didn’t wear anything all that nice during said day in the first place. There is also laziness but I won’t go there as that’ll just open up a whole new can of schlubness worms when Maria reads this.

There is too the comfort of being together with someone but that can lead to complacency and I’m doing my best to not take that for granted and instead remember, as I said earlier, that I don’t exist as the sole inhabitant of my world now. I haven’t been reading any relationship self help books or sappy novels, sorry Oprah, but I can safely assume that looking like a schlub during most of the time that is spent together isn’t all that great in fostering togetherness.

So what I’m going to do now is be proactive and finally let my underwear no longer exist and instead find a pair that I didn’t buy, like 200 years ago in a super K-Mart while also picking up steaks, beer, lawn chairs and a leaf blower. I think it’s also high time that I retire some of the said ratty t-shirts (well except that one … and hold on … ok let me keep just one more …) and jammies (“jammies”, yes, I’m still a child at heart) and instead find a nice three piece outfit of new t-shirt, new pajamas and new socks that weren’t worn by an animal at some point to keep it from chewing off its’ own foot. Then I will finish my attic thoughts, find a razor and remind my Maria that she still and always looks quite fetching “around the house.”

Plus Shoes has finally finished licking the condensation off the beer can and instead has decided that something in my overgrown face looks interesting.

It’s time to exit Guyville. Now where’s that razor… “Ouch Shoes! that’s skin!” …

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