I like to think of myself as a big, strong and virile guy. After all, I’m 6’3’ tall, I’ve been blessed with broad shoulders and chiseled features (albeit with as many lines as Google maps). I’m also a very hairy man, bushy enough to the point where I could pose for the cover of an anthropology book.
However, even considering the fact that I am a walking, talking godlike hunk of machismo, the fact of the matter is that when it comes to certain things, I am just a big baby. It is embarrassing. It is humiliating. It is out of character. It is true.
The site of blood nauseates me. It doesn’t matter if it’s my blood, the blood of roadkill or watered down Heinz ketchup (also known as “store brand”), I get sick at the sight of it. And, to add insult to the blood from injury, my wife is completely unfazed by the sight of blood. It could be a trickle or a gusher, the little woman just calmly whips out her well-stocked First Aid Kit and becomes Nurse Jackie. I, on the other hand, tip-toe out of the room as quietly as the mouse I’ve been reduced to.
It’s the same with needles. It takes me a week to work up to getting a blood test. My wife, on the other hand, could probably do her own blood work while simultaneously removing her own appendix. She’s that good. I would love to give blood, but the thought of sticking that needle in me and keeping it my veins while a see-thru Hefty bag fills with my literal life’s blood turns me into a real p*@sy. I know giving blood is the right thing to do, and there’s even free orange juice afterwards (I loves me some o.j.!), but I can’t do it. My wife, on the other hand, dainty and fragile as she appears, can give blood as often as she urinates. And this woman urinates a lot! She has the bladder the size of a Tic-Tac.
And finally, I am such a sucker for romantic stories. I am a closet rom com and chick flick fanatic. I can’t explain it. All of those Nicholas Sparks tearjerkers are overloading my Kindle. My Netflix queue looks like a Meryl Streep film festival. I’ve tried to watch movies in keeping with my macho exterior, but “Dirty Harry” is just, well, too dirty for me. All those unpleasant bullets and dead bodies! I had to close my eyes and try to think of pleasant thoughts— like “Steel Magnolias” or “Sleeping in Seattle.” Of course, my wife is in the next room probably looking for her “Rambo: First Blood Part II” dvd.
So there you have it. I am officially out of the closet. I’m a straight, all-American male who has been living with a deep, dark secret. I’m just a big baby. Well, on the positive side, at least I know if they ever film my life story I have a great title: “There WON’T Be Blood.”
by Mark New
Mark New is a comedy writer and producer