I might be the most female thing alive. If it makes you squishy, curvy, or emotional, I've got about as much of it as a human being can carry. If there were a way to sell estrogen, I probably wouldn't be slinging furniture.
As it happens, I'm sitting here at Joyful next to several very handsome pieces and thinking, if they could talk, they'd invite me to take a walk on the man side. No long-term changes, of course, but just a vacation from the usual with an itinerary something like this:
- Do something all by yourself, even if it might be smarter and faster to get help.
- Keep a thought to yourself.
- If that doesn't hurt, try keeping a complaint to yourself.
- If that doesn't kill you, try keeping a judgement to yourself.
- Give someone your bus seat.
- Shovel a neighbor's sidewalk.
- Carry something for someone.
- Stick up for the little guy.
- Stick up for yourself.
- Risk total humiliation in a no-holds-barred romantic gesture.
- Risk life and limb for fun and adventure.
These pieces of furniture are no beer-swilling frat boys or corporate drones. They wouldn't be caught dead scratching their smelly bellies in front of the game. These are gentlemen.
The dresser is smooth and mod like Tim Roth in Prada. The spiral-leg table is Cary Grant, all coiffed hair and wry humor. The old door halltree is the bartender at your favorite place who smiles for real. The stout ladderback chairs are bodyguards in perfect shape and perfect form.
They've probably got money on whether I can do anything on my man list. If you're interested, they're probably still taking bets.