I wanna’ look like I know what I’m doin’

For some roles in life, I just don't look the part. Take beach lifeguard, for example. My skin is three shades lighter than alabaster, I have all the muscle tone of a jelly fish, and if I tried to run to save somebody, they'd need three EMTs and a backhoe to dig me out after I'd face-plant in a sand castle. Don't think I look much like an exercise gym poster model, either. Just a hunch.

Some guys -- without even trying perfectly pull off a certain look. I saw one of them the other day at Fleet Farm, at the check-out counter. He was an unassuming dude, just there to pay for his stuff, but you just knew by lookin' at him that he knew what he was doing.

It was the pencil behind the ear that did it. That's right, just a simple yellow #2, tucked in there behind the top lobe, not perfectly level, but at that certain angle that told me had used the pencil recently to mark out a measurement on a 2X4 or drawn a line on a PVC pipe where it needed to be cut. 'Ah, man,' I thought. 'I wish I had a pencil behind my ear. Maybe then I'd get a little respect.'

Meanwhile, the check-out lady was scanning my purchase -- a rodent trap (the mice are movin' in for winter), some floor cleaning solution, AA batteries, and a bag of Hershey's Nuggets (I like to reward myself for tiny accomplishments). She slightly glanced up at me, and habitually asked, 'Is this for farm use?' you know, in case I qualified for the sales tax exemption.

Now, if there's anything I don't look like, it's a farmer, especially then as I was clad in a pair of khaki slacks, a button-down shirt, and slip-on loafers (Daddy doesn't do shoelaces anymore.) Most farmers I know have a 4-day beard growth, a smelly Funk's seed baseball hat pulled halfway down over their eyes, and workboots that are made more of manure than leather. Plus, they tend to have callouses on their knuckles, and the clerk that evening ought to have been able to tell by looking at my paws that the only physical labor I've done in the last week is, well, I can't really think of any. Oh, no, wait. I took out the garbage. I wore gloves, though. Gotta' protect those cuticles.

The guy with the pencil behind his ear was buying a bunch of small hardware pieces, like hinges and braces and screws. He was probably building a fancy china hutch for his wife, I surmised, or maybe he's a contractor and needed a few extra things to finish off somebody's kitchen renovation. Whatever it was, I just knew that he knew how to do it. It's kind of a man law thing, I think, that you don't wear a pencil behind your ear in public if you're a talentless putz like me. Kind of like walking into a church with a priest's collar. Frowned upon.

A similar thing happened to me just last night, as I was nosing around at a home improvement big box store. I wasn't there to buy, but to browse, because there's a few things around my place that need improvement and I figured I'd at least spend a little time studying the options so I don't sound quite as stupid when I get around to asking someone who knows what they're doing if they'll do it for me.

Hey, Bob. Think you could help me with that door frame? I see they have these long, smooth wooden things at the store that you like put screws or nails in. Bet those might work.

Anyway, I was returning to my vehicle after my exploratory trip and looked back at the door to see a guy wheeling out a large cart filled with multiple sheets of plywood. That's right. Plywood. A real man's product. Not pre-cut. Not painted. Just raw material. The kind of stuff you build something with, and then save the trimmings to make something else.

Can't say I've ever bought a sheet. I was impressed, though, watching this hombre wheel his wood to his wagon. I thought about sauntering over there, you know, maybe striking up a construction conversation with him just to show I'm a dude, too (although my mustache, beard, Adam's apple and knuckle hair should provide a hint).

'Hey, there, Mac,' I was gonna say, 'See you've got some treated three-quarter inch USB there. Whattcha buildin?'

I'm guessing the guy would have looked up at me, quickly judged me by my Spongebob Squarepants belt buckle, and grunted 'Get out of the way, pansy,' while he picked up his plywood like it was made out of paper (technically, it is, but like 10,000 sheets pressed together). That's why I stayed away from him, content to watch from afar, and wonder what it's like to command respect from others just for pure ruggedness. Me, I'm not even comfortable walking into a home improvement place. I have this uneasy feeling as if people know I don't belong there, sort of like watching the recovering alcoholic nose around the liquor store. I see other guys in, say, the plumbing aisle, and they're comparing fitting sizes and grabbing pipes and mumbling about water pressure, whereas the only time I walk through there is because it's between the soda machine and the cloth garden gloves with flower patterns (it's hard to find those in XL). I'm completely lost in the power tool aisle and don't know the difference between a reversible, 3-speed power drill/driver and a reciprocating saw, at least not until I buy one and wonder where my ring finger went. And don't even bother mentioning electricity. The only thing I know about AC/DC is the lyrics to 'Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap.' (If you don't get that reference, you're probably wondering what I'm smoking about now).

Should you see me soon in a store where men who know what they're doing shop, please look the other way. If your kids ask, 'Who's the guy who just dropped the full paint can on his toes?' just say, 'Never mind honey. He means well.' And when you see me having a seemingly pertinent conversation with the clerk at the roofing section counter, you can assume the animated gestures I'm making have more to do with asking directions to the restroom than with explaining my shingle needs.

THE

BORN

LESAR