I am and I’m not ashamed. There are no group support
meetings for certified, card carrying, life-long Guy Babies. You can easily
recognize the symptoms. Guys, please answer these questions truthfully.
- Do you pop a pill at the slightest ache?
- Do you want everyone to know when you aren't feeling well?
- Do you hate even the sight of a needle?
- Do you go to the dentist less often than you should?
- Do you avoid your yearly
physical because you fear the lube and the rubber glove?
If you answered yes to at least three of the questions, you
might be a Guy Baby too. Just ask your wife or your significant other. They
never lie.
The exception is sports
Since none of this was ever reported officially and actual eyewitnesses have long since forgotten my piddly-assed bobos, embellishment is of course allowed.
After-all, these are manly tales we tell.
Lessons learned
Limping is good for generating sympathy. It is especially
good if the ankle sprain happened while jumping for a loose ball in a pickup
basketball game (up against a guy at least twice your size). Of course, this freak
of nature used to play college ball for UBC. It doesn't matter how much it
hurts, you get to wear a tensor bandage and use ice bags to take down the
swelling. Besides the doctor told you to keep your foot elevated so at work
that means on your desk. Curious co-workers will most definitely ask what
happened.
A sling invites all the right questions even though you can barely bend your arm. That sack of water on your elbow is actually a good thing. Why? Because you can tell the story of charging hard into a corner during an old-timers hockey game only to have the skates pulled out from under you by some wimp of an opponent who couldn't stop you otherwise. As you crumpled in a heap your pad shifted to the side and you smashed your elbow into the ice. It doesn't matter if the cortisone shots are given with a needle, you have a story to tell.
Crutches are a wonderful conversation starter. You are honoured to wear the cast on your lower leg since you scored the winning run in a co-ed slo-pitch softball game. You were sliding into home when the other team’s catcher tried to tag you out. She fell on your leg and boom, a cracked ankle bone. The hours in emergency and the inconvenience are tolerated because you have a story to tell. That catcher played major women’s fastball. She was very good and besides, everybody wants to sign your cast.
It doesn't matter that your leg is black, blue, yellow and
green from your toes to your knee and you have to take a week off work because
you can’t walk. You can explain that you took a slapshot in the skate during a
game that was supposed to be played by old-timers rules. You know the ones….no
hitting and no slap shots. It was summer pick-up hockey and the guy who took
the shot was out for some extra ice. He was actually a pro with years in the
NHL and his slapshot put you on the injury list for two months. But, how many recreational
hockey players do you know who can say they went to the hospital for x-rays and
winced for weeks because of an NHL frickin’ player?
It’s always better to explain that the two discoloured teeth at the front of your smile came as a result of being accidentally hit in the mouth by a tennis racquet. All you need to say is that it was a particularly intense doubles match. You don’t have to give details even though the whack in the Chiclets was self-inflicted after you tripped over a hole in the outdoor court while chasing a baseline shot from your opponents. But you could, because it’s a good story and the root canal didn't bother you that much.
A sling invites all the right questions even though you can barely bend your arm. That sack of water on your elbow is actually a good thing. Why? Because you can tell the story of charging hard into a corner during an old-timers hockey game only to have the skates pulled out from under you by some wimp of an opponent who couldn't stop you otherwise. As you crumpled in a heap your pad shifted to the side and you smashed your elbow into the ice. It doesn't matter if the cortisone shots are given with a needle, you have a story to tell.
Crutches are a wonderful conversation starter. You are honoured to wear the cast on your lower leg since you scored the winning run in a co-ed slo-pitch softball game. You were sliding into home when the other team’s catcher tried to tag you out. She fell on your leg and boom, a cracked ankle bone. The hours in emergency and the inconvenience are tolerated because you have a story to tell. That catcher played major women’s fastball. She was very good and besides, everybody wants to sign your cast.
It’s always better to explain that the two discoloured teeth at the front of your smile came as a result of being accidentally hit in the mouth by a tennis racquet. All you need to say is that it was a particularly intense doubles match. You don’t have to give details even though the whack in the Chiclets was self-inflicted after you tripped over a hole in the outdoor court while chasing a baseline shot from your opponents. But you could, because it’s a good story and the root canal didn't bother you that much.
When something happens to you during a game, it’s immediate.
You don’t have the time to think and anticipate. You go to the hospital or the
doctor as quickly as possible. Any hurt you experience while playing a sport is
always mitigated by the story.
Life stuff is different
There are appointments to be made. Your brain conjures up
all sorts of negativity. Often, there’s the waiting. Our Medicare system does
operate in slow motion it seems. You can
only imagine what your brain says when you find a lump in your neck and begin
the journey to find out what it is. Months later, the diagnosis is finally
complete.
After 60 years of the usual minor ailments and dental work
along with the sports related stories, I’m the one who got cancer at the age of
62. But, I’m certainly not the only one as 3 in 5 Canadians will experience
cancer during their lives.
The treatments worked. I was declared cancer free. Now I
share the story and the lessons learned as a mentor for the Canadian Cancer
Society.
I've earned my Guy Baby credentials
I consider myself a cancer graduate and I am long since “retired”
from my athletic career. If I moan or wince because of some malady or minor
surgery, I don’t want sympathy. In fact, I’d rather you not know about it. I
recently had a hernia repaired. The pain killers helped me tolerate the
discomfort. I am no longer a pill popper
because I don’t want prescription drugs clouding my faculties. I also now have
a home office so very few people saw me struggle to stand or sit or walk while
the incision healed.
Besides, life stuff is not sexy like the slapshot in the
foot from the NHL player.
PS. I write a column for a magazine called North of 50, published monthly in the Okanagan Valley. A version of Are You a Guy Baby appeared in the April issue.
PS. I write a column for a magazine called North of 50, published monthly in the Okanagan Valley. A version of Are You a Guy Baby appeared in the April issue.