I recently turned 53 and because I'm around so many females at work and home, I thought I'd do something manly to recognize by advancing years.
So I joined a local gun club, took my .44-Magnum revolver, and went shooting.
(Important note: When you ask ammunition clerks at the local Wal-Mart for hollow point .44-Magnum rounds, expect startled looks.)
So that birthday weekend I shot guns. I smoked cigars. I drank beer and ate steak. Hearty manly things!
Monday comes. I go to the bookstore/coffee shop here in Liberty, Mo., and, thinking I'd like to share the details of my manly weekend, ask the proprietor, what he'd been up to.
"I've been diving," he said. "A two-tank dive. Middle of nowhere outside Kozamel." He prattles on and I realize I've been out-machoed by the guy steaming the milk for my latte.
While I'm waiting for my coffee, in walks a local attorney I know. So, thinking I'd like to share facts of my manly weekend with someone, I ask what he had done this past weekend.
"I went wild boar hunting with a bowie knife in rural west Texas."
I live in a tough little town; out of three guys at a coffee shop, the one who shoots Dirty Harry's gun comes in third in machismo!