There's a mouse in our apartment. I saw it on Friday night and I flipped the fuck out, man. It was tiny. No bigger than my thumb. It was so tiny that it managed to squeeze through the space under the doors in our apartment. That's how tiny it was. And I was freaking out, man. I was terrified. I stood in the corner, shouting "MOUSE MOUSE!" and holding a broom while Delma tried to catch it. We ended up not being able to find it so we're hoping it went out the way it came in, otherwise there's a mouse in our house. Maybe it's been in our house this whole time and it's friends with Vicki. Like, we go out for dinner and Vicki's all "Alright, buddy, the coast is clear!" and our dog and the mouse sit on the futon, watching reruns of Home Improvement. Maybe.
Sunday, I went to a coffeeshop to do some schoolwork. I was sitting next to the window, enjoying a nice cinnamon-spiced mocha and an almond croissant (another sign of my beta-ness. A real man would get black coffee and beef jerky). Then, suddenly, without warning, out of nowhere, a bird flew into the cafe and started banging itself against the window I was next to. Again, I was wigging out, man. I grabbed my backpack to use as a shield and started shouting "BIRD BIRD!" Some dude wearing Wrangler jeans and cowboy boots calmly walked on over, scooped the bird up with his bare hands, walked outside and let it fly away.
I felt bad. Both times. If I were a real man, I'd have just grabbed the animal, opened a window and chunked it out. But I didn't. Because I'm a wuss.
It's not something I'm proud of. I'm ashamed of being a wuss. But it is what it is, y'all. Some guys get to be Kobe Bryant. Others get to be Brian Scalabrine.
It's the way I was raised. I was a fat kid that didn't play sports. Growing up, my dad gave me the opposite advice that most Mexican fathers give their sons. Instead of "If somebody's messing with you, kick his ass" it was "Don't hit back. Run away. Curl up into a ball if you have to. Nothing is worth you getting hurt."
And so I've gone the past twenty-six years without ever once being in a fight.
The closest I've come was a couple years ago when some high schoolers were starting shit on the basketball court. I'll spare you the boring details, but it ended with this seventeen-year old charging at us and saying he was going to murder me and my entire family. Dude was my height and I had like forty pounds on him, but I was terrified. My legs were shaking, I was stuttering, my face was red. Nothing happened aside from a shouting match, but I felt so ashamed. I didn't run away, thankfully, but if he had thrown a punch, I would have had my ass handed to me.
If I were "more of a man," would I have kicked his ass? I don't know. It doesn't matter. The end result probably would have been the same, but I wish I had the confidence to not back down, if that makes sense. The knowledge of what to do in that situation.
Y'all ever watch Louie? You know that episode where he's on a date and he asks a few rowdy high schoolers to quiet down and then one of them threatens to kick his ass if he doesn't apologize? So then Louis apologizes and his date ends with the girl telling him how much of a turn-off that was?
That's what I'm worried about.
Louis did the right thing. He avoided a confrontation, he was the bigger man, he walked away. But what bothered him is what bothers me. He wasn't the bigger man by choice. He was the bigger man by necessity. There was no other option. Well, unless you count getting your ass kicked.
Don't get me wrong, I don't want to start street brawls or anything. I just wish I could hold my own in a fight. If I say "Whoa, man. I'm not going to fight you," I want it to be because I genuinely don't want to fight, not because I can't.
What does this have to do with finding a mouse in my apartment?
All different aspects of manliness.
I drink beer. That's manly, right? Kinda.
Though if I drink more than two or three, I get a real bad hangover.
Maybe I should take jujitsu classes and be Batman. Batman's a real man. He's also a real bat though, so...
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