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BREAKING NEWS: I’ve become a chick.
Please excuse the un-evolved reference but seriously, I need some man time. I need some knuckle bumping, beer guzzling, sports watching man time.
I worked on a news set surrounded by women. I live in a house full of them. And it’s my female friends who are most insistent that we hang out—or maybe they’re just the ones I’ve been saying ‘yes’ to. Suddenly I’m going to luncheons where the drinks are pastel colored and there are purses on chairs. And inevitably, someone wants to split an entree. In recent weeks I’ve had lunch dates with some beautiful (and brilliant) San Diego newswomen—while the people around us wonder if I should be envied or pitied.
But I’m not complaining. Sharing a table with the likes of Kathleen Bade, Aloha Taylor and Susan Lennon is nothing to complain about. But I have a girl time threshold and I crossed it about 10 minutes into the first lunch.
I like man time because we talk about man stuff. You know—tools and digging holes, fishing and football. But girl time means girl talk. Nail polish and Stevie Nicks, hair color and horoscopes. There’s lipstick on stemware and lettuce on every plate. And crying. Lots of crying. And they’re not even crying about my terminal cancer. They’re teary eyed and sniffly and I don’t even know why.
So, I raise a toast to my girlfriends: Enough already! I love you but I’ve got man stuff to do—rattlesnakes to wrangle, fires to build and facial hair to grow. And I think I’ll watch some baseball. There’s no crying in baseball.