The Clumsy Interloper

Last night was my weekly Artist’s Date. I brewed some chamomile tea, lit a collection of dollar store candles, broke out a neglected paint-by-numbers canvas from deep within the closet and asked Alexa to play my favorite contemplative music. For two hours, with only my thoughts to narrate, I intently poked my brush right up to the prescribed borders. Globs of acrylic paint, meted out judiciously, feathered into dime-sized shapes. Rotating the canvas in my lap so as not to smudge my previous work, I worked deliberately and patiently. I hunted for any remaining numbers that corresponded to my brush paint, the haunting Native American cedar flute swelled, I sipped my tea and the warmth sat in my chest for a moment before spilling into my stomach. I regarded my work in my dimly lit bedroom, a shirtless 43-year-old man, happy.

Something occurred to me shortly thereafter. If certain close friends in my life saw me right now, they would give me an unending ration of shit. I had to admit, the irony of stoking creativity via the favored metaphor for conformity left me feeling a bit foolish. But why did I care? What about this activity made me self-conscious? Why did I have this gnawing feeling? Did I really fear this hypothetical ridicule? I pondered these questions while I changed my color from cyan to hunter green.

*

I have two friends, former co-workers, with whom I share a lasting rapport. These two are maintenance technicians, strong and capable. They fix things, drink bourbon, watch hockey, own multiple guns and vote Republican. I’m work in Excel spreadsheets, am sober, watch soccer, gunless and left-of-center. They are two of my favorite people in the world.

Our primary bond is rooted in the thankless stewardship of countless University of Virginia student rental properties. A brotherhood forged of defusing the whims of helicopter parents and appeasing their petulant brood. I got out during COVID, they continue to toil in the trenches.

There is a baseline machismo they share to which I’ve been granted an exception. We coexist in this generous space of mutual respect, fellowship and shit talking. It’s important that you understand that I love these guys, but I don’t explicitly tell them that I love them, because that would violate the social contract. Saturday’s are for the Boys. Overt displays of sentimentality are not.

On Sunday, Alexander Ovechkin scored his 895^th goal to pass Wayne Gretzky as the all-time leading goal scorer in NHL history. It was later reported by a reliable source (his incredulous wife) that one of my guys cracked – as a greying Russian launched himself like Superman across the ice, somewhere in Palmyra, Virginia happy tears were spilt. When I first heard this, I smiled in recognition. I too cried when Anthony Rizzo closed his glove on the final out of the 2016 World Series. I too cried when confetti streamed down upon Tony Bennett and company in Minnesota in 2019. However, because of my conditioning, I took to text while humming a familiar Hootie & the Blowfish ditty– “Sometimes you’re crazy, then you wonder why, I’m such a baby, yeah Ovie scoring makes me cry” followed in quick succession by, “You big puss”, “I couldn’t help it!”, “Never let ‘em see you sweat or cry”.

I write about this not to expose others, but rather myself. I like giving my male friends a hard time because it signals to them my affection. It’s a learned response. As a man, my feelings are an array of miscues and deflections. I worry that sensitivity is a weakness.  Will I be exposed if I tread outside the bounds of a culturally recognized masculine norm? Does showing emotion as a man make me uneasy because it threatens this delicate prism by which I have been taught to view the world? I can’t throw a decent punch. I’m uncomfortable in strip clubs. I don’t own a power drill. These are all things that I downplay when topics of renovation projects or recent UFC bouts sprout in a circle of men. However when my friend cries because his favorite player scores a historic goal I scramble for my smartphone to search for the perfect meme to take the piss out of him (I’m in a Glass Case of Emotion btw). It’s fine, now he knows I paint shirtless while listening to flute music. We Good.