Lately, I’ve been thinking about balls. Like… a lot.
Noooo. I’m not leading you down what appears to be that predictable dirty path just to abruptly take the expectedly unexpected left turn and confess that I’m suddenly and uncharacteristically obsessed with bounce houses and March Madness.
Psssh…. Nah, we’re sooooo going there. We are going down that dirty path. By God, I’m going to talk about BALLS. I mean real, big, brass balls. Nuts. Stones. Cahonies. Dem good ole family jewels.
Recently, I was informed, by some of my male Marine friends, that mine are bigger than theirs.
At first I was a little dumbstruck. We weren’t egging each other on to go streaking through the Ghetto Walmart. Nor were there any sort of bets that involved smuggling a chicken under my shirt into the QuikStop. So this declaration was obviously quite unexpected.
Naturally, when I asked for a little, teensy, weensy bit of clarification, both of these dummies came down with that freak lock jaw thing that affects men with no warning. You know the one where coherent words cannot be formed until the subject changes? What a terrible affliction to have to bear…. poor, poor babies.
Regardless, this startling realization infiltrated my psyche and percolated. If anyone cares, here are my thoughts on the matter.
1. Balls are earned. Let me say it again, EARNED.
(Just in case you still can’t quite grasp what I’m saying, say “grrrrr” like a mean ass tiger. Then change “grrrrr” to “earrrrrned.” By the way, I swear to GOD, if I get a text message from someone impersonating Tony the Tiger, I’m blocking your number forever.)
2. Normally the implication that when something has been earned, that something is also deserved. I think that’s why men get so freaked out by strong women. She wasn’t born with them, she isn’t entitled to them, if she has them, then everyone knows that She-Devil slit some throats, razed a few churches, sacrificed some virgins….. fuck yea, she earned them…
(wait for it)…
LIKE A MAN.
Oh shit…. Does that mean she deserves them???
3. I think that since men are technically born with them, many of those men are under the impression that there’s nothing to be earned. They can just keep up the façade of having balls and never really do any of the scary work in order to achieve authentic bragging rights. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not a hard and fast double standard. I know lots of women who are faking it too. And admittedly, they are just as inane and exasperating as the boys who are faking it. It’s all just a big, fat ball faker party.
4. So when you have a man, who’s aware that he’s just walking around with plastic decoy floaties in his pants, and you put him near a woman, who is unassumingly exhibiting her exceptional brass trophies, it’s to be expected that said man is going to freak the fuck out. Depending on his style he may display any number of reactions. He might lash out and try to cut her down, he may go running straight for the dumpster hoes who won’t challenge him, and of course, my all-time favorite, if you’re lucky, he’ll give you the front row seat to the infamous vanishing act.
There’s that old adage which states something to the effect of not criticizing a problem if you don’t have a suggestion for solving it. Well I would love to offer up a solution to help ease this poor tragedy of ball-less men, but frankly, it’s just not my job. And sorry guys, you’re on your own. It’s not like I can cheat the system and earn them for anyone else. If I wanted to relinquish my balls to a “charity” case, I can’t! It turns out that when you earn them, they get soldered on. At that point it’s just best to keep them. I wouldn’t want to go through the process of losing my man card, and having my balls revoked. I Googled the word desoldering. No, thank you.
My last thought on the matter focuses on the question of how does one earn his or her own coveted pair of marbles. I THINK the answer to this is obnoxiously and ridiculously simple, which might explain why it’s so hard for so many people to see. But this is just a theory from a humble girl in Reno, so who the hell really knows.
Step one. You admit, even if it’s only to yourself, that you’re afraid of the obstacle you’re looking at.
Step two. You ask yourself constructive questions to find out where that fear lives deep down inside. From experience, I will tell you with full confidence that this step is the scariest one of all of them.
Then the magic happens.
Step three. You determine what your worst case scenario is. You make a few game plans to hedge the risks and come to the conclusion that you have more control than you ever thought. And when you let this sink in, the scariness starts to lessen, significantly. Now you’re ready to determine the best case scenario. You hold tight to that thought and then you jump.
Step four. When you land face first on the pavement, you call Dr. Pete, the hot dentist, to fix your shit, and then you make a better game plan for next time.
Sounds crazy, but I did get Marine worthy accolades for something I wasn’t even trying to do. I also still have all of my teeth. That has to say something.