One of my favorite hobbies is playing in a co-ed adult kickball league on Friday nights. It is a fun time where adults get to run around playing a kids game for an hour or so every week. Some people forget they are participating in a game that most people give up once grade school is over. Competitive instincts are a hard thing to break. I have heard a lot of trash talk during the seven seasons I've played in this league, and most of it can be filed under the heading of inconsequential. However, one particular comment has stuck with me since the wondrous day it was first uttered. We were playing against a team of young and attractive people that were sponsored by a local bar (yes, some kickball teams have sponsors). The women on the team were both long-legged and skinny. There was one specific girl on the field that night who was trying her best to be the center of attention. She succeeded. She had on bright pink short-shorts, pink knee-high socks, and her t-shirt was rolled up so her midriff was exposed. Most of the men on the field had a hard time keeping their minds in the game, because most of the time, their minds were in the gutter. However, there was a guy on our team named Ray that was not attracted to this girl whatsoever.
Ray was a man in his early thirties who was married to another girl on our team. His intolerance for this girl was not just a facade he was putting on to score points with his wife. I have seen that act put on by many husbands. They will point out a flaw in a woman simply to create a connection with their significant other in hopes of cashing that chip in later that night for a sexual favor. In this case, Ray was genuinely disinterested in this girl, and he had his reasons. None of the men on the field that night were fantasizing about her intellectually. Their interest was simply carnal. Ray was beyond disinterested in her. He was skeptical of her general character. I know this because he pulled me aside in the dugout, and said to me, “You see Pinky over there? She can't be trusted. Look, her thighs don't even touch when she runs.” His logic was baffling at first, but seemed to have some form of reasonable base. I asked him what he meant by that. He replied simply, “You just cant trust a woman whose thighs don't touch.”
I couldn't argue the confidence with which he spoke. I also couldn't figure out why I didn't debate him or ask for further clarification. I just accepted it as gospel and after the last out of that inning, I took my spot in right-centerfield.
It wasn't until later that night when I started to think about Pinky and Ray again. At that point, all the questions began to arise in my mind. Was he just a fan of bigger girls? Ray wasn't exactly a slender fellow himself, but his wife wasn't a large girl by any means. I think he just liked “real” women. I have always gone by the code of wanting a woman who can get her money's worth at an all-you-can-eat buffet, but I stop at the point where she might be asked politely to leave by a restaurant manager looking out for his or her bottom line.
As a 150 pound man, I am in no way, shape or form an overweight person. The days that followed that encounter with Ray, I found myself monitoring my own gate whilst walking, running or during general movement. I wanted to see if I was a trustworthy individual. I wondered if the same generality of trustworthiness applied to the male gender. I searched for the masculine equivalent to the friction inducing thighs of a woman. Was it something similar? Did a man have to have a certain physique to be considered trustworthy? I decided that neither muscle tone nor body type would apply equally to men. It had to be something that was a choice, but also a a gift. It finally hit me. I had always been skeptical of people who attempted to grow beards, but their follicle fortitude left something to be desired. You know, a man with a full face of beard and mustache, but still had a small gap that left the two disconnected. A beard, by definition is the hair that grows on a man's face, often excluding the mustache (thank you Merriam-Webster.com). On the other hand (or face), a mustache is the hair growing on the upper lip. To grow one or the other is not a feat in and of itself. However, to grow the duo and have them meet up to form one solid structure of facial adornment takes a real man, a trustworthy man. Those who can grow one or the other, without that fateful connection, are suspect in my book. I think Ray would agree with me there. At least I hoped he would.
I accepted his take on the female anatomy as something to be fully considered and respected. His comments about Pinky that night on the field of kickball battle have stuck with me for two years now. Each time I see a woman in a form-fitting outfit that allows me to judge her trustworthiness, I take his words into consideration. Also, each time I encounter a man with a detached beard-mustache combo, I keep a close eye on him. He could be working on a devious plan to steal my wallet, sell me faulty products or hit on my wife.
My wife fits the bill of a trustworthy woman, so I don't worry too much about her. I just sit back, stroke the hair on my fully covered face and keep a watchful eye on those of whom I have deemed less credible.
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