I find myself in a dreary space as I write to you today. It doesn’t often come to me, but when it does I am gracious enough to entertain it for just a few hours before I remind it not to let the door smack it in the rear end as it leaves. For now, Cranky Pants, come and sit for a while…
It is on these uncommon occasions that I desperately wish for a Man Box. I’ve heard of them, I’ve even witnessed the use of them, yet never have I seen one and for the love of all that is holy, I would like to own a few.
A Man Box, as I understand it, is a box, or a whole slew of boxes, where men put things. And when they put things like feelings and worries and snacks in the boxes, they are not thought of again until the box is purposefully opened at some later date.
Heaven. This sounds like heaven.
The way it works for women, at least this woman, is not at all like a box, or a room full of boxes, but like a big, oversized duffel bag. I think mine’s sort of a brick color, tattered and frayed on the handles from toting it with me everywhere I go.
In this duffel, I carry all the thoughts about all the things in my day, many from my week, a few from this year and there are even some that poke out the end from the beginning of time.
My duffel has room for the threat of natural disasters, fears for my children, my GPA from high school and some house projects that aren’t getting done as quickly as I’d like. So I carry them around with me. Every day. All. Day. Long.
The duffel rubs, scrapes and while it’s only a metaphor, I’m pretty sure carrying it around with me is the cause of an actual knot in my shoulder.
For this reason I would like to go to The Man Box Store. There I would pour my cash out for pretty boxes that could store natural disasters and GPA’s alike. I would put in them my worries for my children and I would store, even if it was just for the evening, my concerns over organic food, travel and pet vaccinations.
This would be far superior to snuggling up to a lumpy, brick colored, duffel bag that pokes me awake from time to time and takes up too much space in the bed.
If I could in fact find The Man Box Store, I am not at all convinced they would let me buy those pretty boxes, or even let me in. It would have something to do with XY chromosomes or some such nonsense. Rude. I imagine I would be sent away, woefully dragging my duffel bag behind me.
I suppose there’s nothing to do but empty out my tired, old bag, rifle through the things that matter, dump that nonsense about zombies, maybe review my actual food storage and get on with the business of happiness.
Their boxes probably aren’t even pretty anyway. Who needs ‘em?