Sports and Cars and Hobbit Holes

I think I'm, in many ways, a shame to my sex. 

Sports are lost on me.  I’d rather play than watch, and I’m not good at playing.  The last time I actively watched the Super Bowl was John Elway’s final game when he took the Broncos to victory.  I was in fourth grade, and sat on the floor in front of the TV coloring fake promo ads with Crayola markers during the long periods of inactivity on the field.

I know even less about cars.  I like certain designs (I loved my Hot Wheels), but when it comes to what’s under the hood… I don’t know what GT means and why it’s so desirable (is it?) I never really thought this would be a huge problem, until I met my B.  She can i.d. a car coming on the opposite lane at night by the shape of its headlights.  She knows what makes and models to avoid, she knows tire scams and body work. 

How does she know this? 

Her dad. 

 (This is in no way exaggerated.  Dude's ripped.)

My burly, terrifying, intimidating, barrel-chested, tree-trunk-armed, puzzle-loving father-in-law knows cars. 

He is one of the most proficient auto body men in the state.  He knows his cars.

Both my wife and I are a lot like our fathers.  But my dad is a theatre major turned Air Force JAG.  What skills have I inherited?  Well, let’s just say regaling mechanics with an explanation of tort law or reciting the Chorus’s opening soliloquy to Shakespeare’s Henry V won’t save you anything on an oil change. 

Which is why I felt so eager to prove my tough, rugged, manly providerhood to B. while we were engaged.  She was living a four hour drive away before we were married (long distance sucks) and in addition to getting wedding plans thrown together, was finishing her last semester at college before transferring up to a university here, studying for her finals, getting overworked at her job, and babysitting our niece.  B. was frazzled.  She had enough on her plate that I was just unable to help with either due to distance or incompetency. 

But one thing I knew how to do, I had practically been raised to do, was move.  Honestly, the wedding was a breeze compared to the pressures of moving.  It was my responsibility to find somewhere for us to live.  I looked and looked and researched and asked around and visited several apartments near campus, trying to find something that would fit our budget.  Some were nice, some were awfully cramped, most were expensive, I was gunning for a basement apartment to save on air conditioning.  I also wanted to have something lined up that we could BOTH look at and decide on together on one of B’s infrequent weekend visits. 

We had one that looked good, but it got snagged before we had a chance.  Just when it looked like we’d have to bite the bullet and pay extra to live on campus, a co-worker told me a friend of hers was looking to move and needed buyers.  I met them, I loved it, when I saw the rent I could have died it was such a steal.  We took it, and we’ve loved our basement apartment for over a year now.  It’s a hobbit hole with a low ceiling, so our tall friends hate coming over, but it’s got open space, it’s affordable, it’s home.  

Our home.

Our first home.  

And who found it?  This guy.  I am a man!  I put a roof over my girl's head.  Well, actually I put an entire house over her head, but that includes a roof.  Just when all seemed lost, we were blessed at the last second with the perfect home to start our marriage.

I realize I’m not the typical class-A alpha male eating meat off the bone, talking cars with the boys over a few beers and staying well-informed about football or fantasy football. 

But I don’t care. 

I waste enough time as it is without following sports.  Although I am proud to say I gave up video games when I discovered girls.  All I care about in a car is if it will get me and B safely home without guzzling gas.  I may not subscribe to the typical “macho” creed, but I’m a man. 

I’m her man. 

And man, that’s enough for me.

Any other atypical bros out there, can I get an Amen?

S