Every once in a while, the boys need a break.
This past weekend, my Saturday morning was going to be blown anyway since I had to dress up in the black wool academic regalia gown and march the graduates through their paces. Obviously I could not leave town or be any fun on Saturday. Perfect weekend, my spouse decides, for a fishing weekend.
Boy weekends, I gather, start early. Like on Thursday night, if possible. Earlier that day, I had been sent on foraging missions for the guy acquisitions needed for a guy weekend. Lots of red meat. To grill. The only vegetables suitable for a guy weekend are corn on the cob and baked potatoes. None of this sissy arugula salad stuff. And sandwiches. Lots of meaty cheesy sandwiches, I assumed for lunch on the fishing boat.
The fishing boat buddy arrived very early Friday morning, or maybe it was just late late late on Thursday night. He had started things off with a night-fishing expedition with yet ANOTHER fishing buddy up on Wilson Lake. Now he was ready for a fresh new fishing buddy on the next Tennessee River lake down the chain. All these guys are married. Apparently there is nothing better than getting together with like prisoners for a rebellious weekend of R and R. No shaving, no yard work, watch all the sports you want, fish whenever you like, forget the exercise routine. Even if there is a storm coming and lightning in the distance, there is no nagging sweet female voice to say "Honey, are you sure you should be out in a boat in that weather?" No one to say "don't even THINK about gutting that fish on my clean counter." And on guy weekends, you can leave the toilet seat up the entire weekend.
And apparently you can smoke cigars. A lot of cigars. Inside.
"Why inside?" I asked when the boy weekend was over and it was OK for me to enter back into the picture. To clean, I assumed. I walked into the camp, and immediately the unmistakable scent of cigar smoke clung to my skin/hair/clothes, permeated by lungs.
"Too cold to smoke outside."
"But you were FISHING outside?"
"Which is why we needed to come INSIDE to warm up."
But at least this cigar smoke aroma was not the cheap cigar stink of my youth when everything returned to us from my aunt's house had to be washed because cheap Hav-A-Tampa molecules clung to it. Even a returned empty clean DISH had to have the cigar smell scalded off.
No, this was infinitely better than that. Fruity, smoky, earthy, and with a hint of testosterone thrown in. I learned a lot about cigars in about five minutes. I saw all the various cigar rings to prove there had been a veritable cigar smorgasbord. Here are some other things I gleaned about boy weekends from what my husband said casually in conversation.
1) On boy weekends, if your boat malfunctions, it is not necessary to turn red in the face and complain in a loud voice and end up kicking the boat trailer tires when your attempts to fix the problem do not work. On boy weekends, you just pull the boat out of the water, stand around looking useful while you eat an entire sack of Maple Nut Goodies, and you let your fishing buddy friend fix the problem. Problem solved :-)
2) On boy weekends, boys can actually wash dishes for themselves. And cook.
3) At the end of a boy weekend, it is not necessary to become sad because the weekend is over and you are looking around at all the chores you did not complete to perfection, sigh. In fact, at the end of a boy weekend, you can look around at your lot, trashed from high winds, and shrug and say "it'll be here next week," go back inside, and watch some more sports.
Maybe I'm ready for a boy weekend myself.
But with a pedicure. And the toilet seat down.