The "Me First" Attitude

I see this a lot at the airport. Our plane arrives and the pilot turns off the fasten seatbelt sign, which is our “one and only signal that we may stand.” General, unspoken protocol is that the first seats empty out, right to left, with those seated in the rear patiently waiting their turn to exit. Normally, the process works smoothly, but occasionally there is a troublemaker. They are usually wearing a suit, talking on their cell phone and pushing their way to the front as if they are late for court. Once the process has been disturbed, anarchy takes hold and everyone from the rear of the plane surges forward. It’s very good that guns are not allowed on airplanes.

At Reagan National Airport in DC, many of the USAir flights arrive at a herding area because there aren’t enough gates to accommodate them all. Transportation to and from the terminal is handled by shuttle bus. Each and every time, whether going out to the plane or coming back, I am astounded by the illogic of the “me first” people. The first eight or ten people to get on the shuttle (unless one of them is me) fill up the first seats and rows. Two by two, they sit across the aisles, leaving a narrow passage between them for everyone else to pass. As you squeeze through, they look up at you in exasperation and bewilderment, as if wondering what you are doing on their bus. It never seems to hit them that we are all going to the same place and the plane will not take off until we are all on board and seated. They don’t care. They got the front seats! There must be a prize that I don’t know about.

Another example of “me first” occurs at the Baggage Claim, and unfortunately, I see it every single time I travel. Like kids waiting for a piñata to explode, travelers gather around the carousel with breathless anticipation. They cluster at the conveyor as if they have received a text message alerting them that their bag is arriving first. It drives me crazy. I want to grab a bull horn and give them a quick lesson in common sense bag retrieval. If everyone stood back about five feet, then calmly stepped forward to get their bag when it arrives, the rest of us wouldn’t have to wait until our bag has circled the carousel three times to go home to our families.

General selfishness and lack of courtesy seem to be a growing trend. It appears that everyone is in a hurry and wherever they have to go is more important than where I do. I get pushed past on the street, on escalators, through doors. I have people push past me to enter elevators, as if their early entry will help them reach their destination before me. This is almost never the case, because once they’ve chosen their floor, I enjoy accidentally hitting all the other floors prior to it. “Oh, that’s not it,” I say, and hit another. “Oh darn, I think it’s twelve.” I consider it a public service.

I try to be a gentleman, but the “me first” phenomenon can cause that to backfire. My family arrived at a restaurant last week and as usual, I held the door. After my girls entered, I noticed another group arriving and I held the door for them as well. Suddenly I was trapped as a steady stream of people arrived and walked past. I looked down once to see if I was wearing what appeared to be a doorman uniform, because no one really acknowledged me and never once was there an offer to let me enter. I tried to break in a few times and got looks that translated into “how rude!” and “you’ve got some nerve!” When I finally arrived at our table, sometime after dark, my family was just finishing dessert and the server was handing me the check.

I’ve noticed the greatest change at the grocery store. Not so long ago you could walk up to the checkout lane and if you had less than five items in your hands, someone would wave you in front of them. Now they stare straight ahead, ignoring any eye contact, leaving you with your can of baby formula and diapers to fend for yourself. They will rationalize that you can use the “self-checkout” but when did we start rationalizing common decency?

We are all in too big a hurry. I set a goal at the beginning of this year to “saunter” more. I wanted to slow down and enjoy the change of the seasons. Now it’s mid-May and I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve stood still outside long enough to feel a breeze. We are rushing through life, wishing our days away by looking forward to something around the corner, tomorrow or next week. We don’t take the time to enjoy where we are right now because we are so sure what’s ahead is so much better. Even if we don’t know where we are going, we can’t wait to get there, and more than anything, we have to get there first.

In Over My Head

Since I am away from home so much, I really try to make to the most of our family time together. It doesn’t matter what we do, whether it’s sitting around the house watching television, playing a game, or going out to eat, I don’t take it for granted. I know that every moment is precious. As the girls get older, I know that those moments will be increasingly rare, and eventually I will only have the memories.

That being said, and with all the love in the world for my wife and three daughters, let me shift gears a bit and say that taking them shopping is essentially a torture that even Dick Cheney would deem too excessive. Before you think I’m being cheap and just hate spending money on my beautiful and deserving family, I can honestly say that is definitely not the case. If anything, I am generous to a fault. I understand they need clothing, and I want them to have nice things. I just don’t understand why I need to be there when they are purchased.

I don’t mind shopping. In fact, I believe I am a pretty good shopper. When I shop for clothes, I generally know what I am looking for and which stores have them. I go directly to the area where that product is held and search for a suitably priced, appropriately fitting garment. It’s a fairly straightforward course of action.

I have experienced shopping with my wife for over twenty years, and amazingly we are still married. There have been times when we’ve walked into a store, wandered into the women’s clothing section, and with one quick glance at the racks, she says “they don’t have anything.” Then we leave.

I didn’t understand it twenty years ago and I don’t understand it now. Either she has supernatural powers (and I don’t doubt that she does, because she often puts a spell on me) which somehow allows her to know when the right apparel is within range, or she isn’t really interested in purchasing clothes. The act of “shopping” might be a subterfuge designed to get me out of the house and involved in some form of exercise. She’s sneaky and I wouldn’t put it past her.

This past weekend I found myself involved in a quest for swimsuits. I should know better, because it’s always an exercise in futility and frustration, but they should also know better than to invite me and expect practical assistance. From past experience, they should know that all advice I provide is useless and will be quickly discarded. From a man’s point of view there are two types of women’s swimsuits: those that we might enjoy seeing on strangers at the beach and those that we would allow our daughters to wear. Trying to find a happy medium is like discussing politics at a family dinner…everyone else is right, and I’m an idiot.

When we arrived at the store, I was given the assignment to find a swimsuit for our ten year old, which I think was a ploy to get me out of the way for a while. Like I said earlier, men shop differently than women. I do not look at styles or prices first, I look for sizes. I scan the top of the hangers for the appropriate size and then take a quick look at the style. If it’s not made of two strings and an inch of cloth, then I look closer for specific design requirements. If I think it’s worthy of a second opinion, I hold it up and get Connie’s attention. 9 times out of ten she gives me a “you’ve got to be kidding” look and shakes her head. The tenth time she rolls her eyes and turns her back on me. It’s not a very fruitful system, but it keeps me busy.

If there were 15 racks of swimsuits and 14 of them were marked “clearance sale,” it is pretty well guaranteed that the only apparel chosen would be on rack #15. It’s not intentional, and I give the girls full credit for trying, but somehow it always works out that the perfect blend of style, fit and color can only be found on that one rack. By this point I am worn down and ready to go. The thought of searching more stores for cheaper suits has negative appeal to me. I could think of ten things I don’t like to do that I’d rather be doing than spending more time looking for swimwear.

I insist that they try them on and if they fit, I will buy them. I tell them not to look at the price and just get something. Life is too short.

If only it were that simple.

Women’s fitting rooms always seem to be situated in the lingerie section. It’s not the most comfortable feeling for a man to be left standing amongst racks of bras and panties, trying to look like you belong while women shoppers look at you with a mix of concern and confusion. One lady slid her hand inside her purse, probably to grip tightly to her small can of mace. I’ve learned not to make sudden movements.

The reason I must stay close to the fitting rooms is because my job at this point is “runner.” If a suit is well liked, but not quite fitting the way they want (and they never do), I am to return to the racks and find the adjusted size. This is something even I cannot screw up. The answers are simple, “yes, they have the size you requested and here it is,” or “no, they don’t have that size.” Occasionally I may be asked for an opinion on how a particular suit looks, but I think they only do this to make me feel involved in the process, because I’ve never noticed that my judgment is taken into consideration at all.

Of course, I’m looking at all of this from a much simpler view point. Guys can just go buy a shirt, a pair of pants, or a pair of swim trunks, and it’s not a big deal. We don’t have the pressure that women have on them. Other men don’t look at us and turn up their nose. We don’t have to worry about how much skin to show or not to show. There are a thousand considerations on any single clothing purchase processing in the mind of a woman, and I can’t seem to comprehend any one of them.

The biggest problem I have is that I think my girls look good in almost anything. I remind them that when they smile, no one will be looking at their clothing. It’s an argument that I never win, but I keep trying. I also remind them that a great time for them to shop is when I’m away on travel. I promise them that I won’t feel left out and they are welcome to use my bank card to pay for it. It’s much less frustrating for all of us.

Stressing out

Stress is a funny thing. Most of the time I deal with it pretty well. Living with four women should prepare me fairly well for stressful situations, but there’s a completely different type of stress at home than there is at work.

I’ve worked for the same company for nineteen years, which is pretty hard for me to believe. Up until last year I had still been looking for that thing I wanted to do when I grew up, but one day it finally it hit me that I was probably doing it. That’s a sobering realization. You always imagine that there is something better out there. You fool yourself into thinking that you are just paused on a stepping stone…but then you open your eyes and realize that there aren’t any more stones.

Lacking stones gives you a new perspective. You begin to appreciate the tiny piece of granite you are standing on a little bit more. Actually, I don’t know if “appreciate” is the right word, but there are less moments where you simply take it for granted, and many more where you desperately cling to it in fear that it will go away and you will freefall into oblivion.

This week has been particularly difficult, dealing with various personalities, egos, psychos and idiotic behavior. It’s a fine line to walk and try to make everyone happy when they start out at a place of discontent. It’s also a time when every decision is second guessed. I don’t care how confident you are in your job skills or how well you do in yearly performance evaluations; no one likes to be under a microscope. The big blinking eye on the other side of the glass is like the sun, making you sweat and seeming to have the intention of burning you to a crispy char.

I worry about my job more than I used to. Every night there seems to be more bad news about the economy and rising unemployment. It’s not a good time to lose a job. I have a mortgage and other bills, college for three kids to plan for and hopefully a lengthy, relaxing retirement to enjoy with my wife. I am an aging man with diminishing skills and a relative disinterest in learning something new. That’s not exactly the profile most companies are anxious to hire.

I’m also getting to the age that I have no desire to look for a new job. I’m not that ambitious. I’ve grown comfortable in my job, which is both good and dangerously bad. I take pride in my work, and for the most part I enjoy what I do, but like everyone, there are days…or weeks…and sometimes years that test the ability to endure.

So I stress a bit about it all, just like I worry over my kids and Connie. I wake up at 3am with the sudden jagged thought that I may have missed something important or made an error in judgment. After staring wide-eyed into the darkness contemplating that for a while, I settle into the more worrisome thoughts of “can I do this for eleven more years?”

I have no idea. I don’t have a master plan. I don’t even have a simple set of notes scribbled on a napkin. My plan is to stay on my solitary stone and not fall off. All I have to do is keep my balance.

For Mom...

I have been blessed with three incredible mothers in my life. One gave birth to me, one gave birth to my wife and the other I married. All are a gift I didn’t truly deserve but desperately needed to keep me on the right path. Their voices are with me wherever I go, and although there have been times when I’ve tried to tune them out, they always seem to guide me to where I need to be.

Mom stayed at home while Dad earned the paycheck, but her share of responsibility was at least equal to his. Like me, Dad travelled a lot. As a truck driver, he would be gone for a week at a time, leaving Mom to take care of four kids and the house. It couldn’t have been easy, but she never made it look hard. I never heard her complain. I never saw her frustrated, exasperated, or out of control. She just did what needed to be done, and loved us while she did it.

We were not a “touchy-feely” family, and I don’t remember ever hearing Mom or Dad verbally say “I love you” to any of us. Still, it was never in question. I grew up in the warm comfort of knowing, without a doubt, that my parents loved me. They didn’t try to be my best friend, like so many of us attempt to do with our kids today. They didn’t spoil me with a lot of stuff I wanted but didn’t need. Instead, they did all they could, sacrificing of themselves, and tried to teach us the simple lessons that would get us through.

In deference to Peter Pan, if I ever need to go to a “happy place,” it’s easy to drift back to snapshots of my childhood. I can see Mom hanging wet clothes on the line in the back yard while I rode my bike, and I remember that clean, fresh smell later as I put them on. I can see us all sitting in lawn chairs at dusk, breaking beans that we had just picked by the basket full from the garden. I see Mom sitting in church on the hard wooden pews, the purse beside her holding only Kleenex because Mom didn’t wear make-up and didn’t carry money, but she did cry if the music touched her.

I learned to cook from watching mom in the kitchen. I learned to love food from tasting her down home meals. With the exception of the occasional boiled cabbage or beets, I can’t remember anything that my mother cooked that I didn’t love. She never had to cook two separate meals or serve a bowl of cereal to one of us kids because we didn’t like what she was serving. I don’t know how our kids got so off track that they believe every meal deserves menu service. Mom wouldn’t have allowed that, but we would have never dared to ask.

Holidays were a feast, and I still don’t know how she made it look so effortless. She kept a list of everyone’s favorite foods, which grew rather large in the years after we started getting married and having kids, yet somehow she made them all. Mine, of course, was baked macaroni and cheese, but she accommodated others with oyster casserole, sweet potatoes, Waldorf salad and at least a dozen more items that someone, at one time or other, had mentioned liking. We’ve tried to get her to cut back on the list, but each suggestion is met with the response that someone likes it, as if not cooking that one thing would somehow reduce her love for them. We finally gave up. She is an immovable force.

It’s hard to imagine today, but Mom never learned to drive. I’ve tried to picture her behind the wheel of a car, but I can’t. She doesn’t belong there anymore than I belong on water skies. Some things just aren’t meant to be.

We lived in town, so we walked if we had to go somewhere and Dad wasn’t home. It was never far, being a small town, and it was never a problem. It wasn’t bad to be mobility challenged because we were homebodies, and that worked because we had a great home. I never felt the urgent need to grow up and move out. I never felt the pressure to revolt. Home was sanctuary. Home was safe.

Our family attended our small church whenever there was a service, but much more importantly, Mom and Dad raised us in a Christian home. There were many nights I saw my mother kneeling beside the bed, hands folded in front of her in prayer, and I knew that one of those prayers would be for me. If I do fail in my life, I know I will have no one to blame but myself. It will not be for lack of good examples or lack of prayer on my behalf.

Mom hasn’t always understood me (and I can’t blame her for that), but she’s always supported me. She’s never stopped being my mother. With just one look or even a tone of voice over the phone, she can still make me feel like an eight year old who stepped on her flowers. I don’t mind though, because I still need to be kept in line sometimes, and Connie appreciates the help.


I didn’t give Mom and Dad the credit they deserved as I was growing up, and I moved out without fully appreciating how good I truly had it. Not until I had my own children did I realize how much they did for me and how much they gave up so I could be happy. I hope I earned it.

Mom and Dad are coming to Tennessee for a visit next week. It’s a rare thing and I do not know how many more times they will pass through my door. I’ve made plenty of mistakes as a parent, and my kid’s lives are far more frantic, disorganized and confusing than mine was growing up, but I hope that while my parents are here, they will see glimpses of what they taught me living out in my home. I hope they will know that it meant something to me, and I’m trying to pass that on to my own kids. I hope they know how much I love them, because even though I don’t have a problem saying it anymore, I want them to feel it as much as I did…and always will.

A Disease Called "Stupid"

I have tried to teach my kids to think before they speak. It’s a lesson that most of us have only learned from the bitter taste of foot in mouth, and as a father who loves them, I would prefer they avoid that experience altogether. I try to lead by example. That is my excuse for saying stupid things. I am trying to show them an example of how NOT to be. It’s difficult sometimes, and I don’t really enjoy looking like an idiot, but I’m doing it for my kids, so that makes it all okay.

I keep in practice even when they aren’t with me. Recently I pulled up to the speaker at the McDonald’s drive through and said, “I’d like a large cup of coffee,” then paused just a beat before adding, “TO GO.” To the credit of the person on the other end of the microphone, they did not let on that they were laughing at me, but I was pretty sure that they were. I would have been. If it had been me, I might have been tempted to say, “are you sure you don’t want to park and come inside where it’s nice and cozy?” Or “You’re welcome to drink it here at the window Sir; I’ll just let everyone in line know that there will be a little wait.”

Sometimes I say stupid things by being repetitive. Last week in DC a man on the metro platform said, “It sure is hot for April.” That was not a statement that required a lengthy response. A simple, “yes, it certainly is,” would have been more than sufficient between two total strangers, yet I opened my mouth and began to cough out nonsense. “Hot,” I said. “Yes, it’s very hot. Very hot for April. I don’t remember it being this hot this early.” Then, as if I thought I needed some kind of whimsical finale, I added an almost sing-songy whisper, “It is Hot, hot, hot.”

The man stared at me for a moment, then nodded and casually walked away; glancing back once to make sure I wasn’t following him. I played a quick rewind in my head of what just came out of my mouth and thought, where in the heck did that come from? This, I am sure, is why I did not date in high school.

Despite the selfless decision to sacrifice my self-esteem for the good of my children, I still try to draw the line at saying stupid, “hurtful” things. Unfortunately, sometimes my brain is on auto-pilot, stuck in the S gear where stupid things blurt out without any filter.

I live with four females of varying ages. Keeping track of the various insecurities, phobias, and sore spots would be a full time job for someone not afflicted with stupid mouth disorder. For me, it is constant uphill battle…on ice…wearing cowboy boots. If a day at home were to pass without me opening my mouth to say something unintentionally stupid and making one of them mad or hurt, it would be a day to live in infamy.

Often I end up standing alone in a room that had just been a swirl of activity and chatter, left only with the sound of stomping feet and a series of slamming doors, wondering what just happened. I usually start out being defensive, shaking my head at their over sensitivity, but after a few moments of deathly silence, I am fully aware that once again I fallen neck deep into my own ignorance.

I’ve gained a lot of experience at saying “I’m sorry.” Apologies must be carefully worded, so as not to make it worse, but by that point I am on full alert and my stupid filter is closed so tight that even my blinks are carefully calculated. The key is to not expect the apology to be verbally accepted. That would be letting me off easy and in my house that is just not done. I say my piece and walk away, hoping that at some point in the near future the offended party will simply return nonchalantly to my presence as if nothing had ever happened. We do not speak of it again and repeat the entire process the next time I say something stupid (which is sort of like saying “the next time I breathe”).

I am hoping that someday technology will advance to a point where microchips can be implanted in our heads to override the stupid part or our vocabulary. This could potentially mend broken marriages and put an end to feuds and wars. We could finally achieve what years of Miss America contestants have hoped and prayed for…world peace.

In the meantime, there’s little that can be done except futile attempts at silence (which is usually misinterpreted as rudeness or seething aggression), or the careful application of Duct Tape. I’m counting on the Duct Tape.

This Old Money Pit

I have a lengthy list of half finished projects at my house that unfortunately reached a point beyond my minimal skills. Our home’s previous owner would have forged ahead, and apparently did so on many occasions, leaving us with poorly constructed shelves, walls and storage areas that have soured me on the prospect of unskilled labor working in my home. No one is more unskilled than I, so I have a general rule which forbids me from raising a hammer.

I am not completely useless. I can handle some basics, like changing light bulbs or plunging a clogged toilet, but beyond the simplest tasks, I prefer to leave it to the professionals. Due to lack of funds or general procrastination (for which I have a true talent), our home repairs and upgrade projects have been pushed back and further down the financial priority list, always behind family vacations, but jockeying for spots somewhere between buying a new Hybrid vehicle and the Season 2 DVD set of My Name is Earl.

As time passed, we finally reached the point that we realized that we either needed to move, renovate, or find an ingenious way to burn the place down for the insurance. Being neither ingenious nor lucky, our list of options narrowed rather quickly. Moving would require not just purchasing another home, but also selling our existing one. Since our interest in moving was partially due to our fear that the house would fall down around us, I had some concern about how easy it would be to sell, and how little we would be willing to accept for salvage rights. It also became apparent, as we looked at homes for sale in our area, that we were not finding anything in our price range that was exactly what we wanted. None came close to the size of our current home, and if we found one thing that we really liked about any of them, there were always two or three things we didn’t.

Being logical to a fault, I decided that it made more sense to refinance and renovate. It took a while to convince Connie, but we both discussed that this should be a short term situation. We have eight more years of school for our youngest and then she’s off to college. Before her taillights are out of sight we will be packed and on the way out of this town. Not sure yet where we are going, but we’ve got some time to figure that out.

We’ve been in the process of renovating our home for many months now. Due to delusional planning based on some really bad advice and my own naïve notions, we are now drastically over budget and woefully behind schedule. I’ve had moments when I wondered if it would have been easier to have bulldozed the structure and started from scratch. It seems that every contractor and worker who has set foot inside the front door has commented on how “unsquare” the walls, floors and ceilings are. It got to the point that I started to take it personally. It was also an excellent excuse for everyone to charge me more money.

We’ve had the typical renovation nightmare stories: shoddy work, contractors who promised to show up on the next day and didn’t reappear for a week. Unanswered calls, missed deadlines, holes accidentally drilled through our roof. A lot of the early work has had to be redone, more than tripling many of the original cost estimates. It’s hard to maintain a Christian attitude.

We were without a kitchen for over a month. We cooked with a hot plate and a microwave. We did our dishes in a bucket sitting in our bath tub. That’s not good for the back or the morale. I do not recommend it.

Before we left on a two week vacation in October, we rebooted the entire project by hiring a general contractor. This was one of the smartest things I have ever done. He took over the hiring and firing, the scheduling, and the expectations of quality. With my involvement out of the way with the exception of writing checks, everything evolved much more smoothly, but also more costly. When we returned from vacation, our “living room, kitchen, dining room” combo had been transformed. We all compared the moment of opening the door to the “move that bus” excitement from Extreme Home Makeover. I nearly cried.

Once we had a working sink and stove, the need for completing the other work lost some of its urgency. We took a long winters nap and suddenly realized that there was still a lot to do. We planned to convert our old dining room/office/place where things got put until we found another place room into our new master bedroom. It would give us a lot more room and also have space for a walk-in closet. Connie had dreamed of a walk-in closet since we married, and I thought it would make a good place to play hide and seek until I remembered I wasn’t eight years old anymore.

A few weeks ago the great bedroom makeover began and as usual, nothing was simple. None of the four walls were “square” and neither was the floor. As the contractor tried to describe the measures that would have to be taken to fix this Salvador Dali inspired room, I could tell that his standards for quality and precision were much higher than mine. I wanted to stop him and suggest that he not worry quite so much about perfection, because although I could certainly see what he was talking about now that he had pointed it out, I had lived in this house for 16 years and didn’t notice or care that our walls were out of alignment. Couldn’t we just throw up some drywall and paint? This really shouldn’t take more than a day, should it?

I didn’t say anything for a couple of reasons. One, I didn’t want to sound like an idiot. I have learned that I appear much smarter if I just keep my mouth closed and nod. Second, I did want the work to be done right. We’d come too far and spent too much to go cheap now. “In for a penny, in for a metric ton,” I always say.

We’ll hopefully be in our new bedroom in two weeks. That’s after multiple days of drywall mudding, sanding and re-applying. Then painting and drying and re-applying. The floor has to be put down and the molding and lights installed. I don’t know what else there will be, but I’m sure I wouldn’t have thought of it on my own and it will be absolutely essential to the successful completion of the project. Whatever it is, it will cost money.

In my original fairy tale estimate, I had scheduled two days for the work on the bedroom, with an equally ridiculously small amount of money set aside to pay for it. It’s become brutally obvious that although I am fairly good at planning within the scope of work that I am accustomed to, I am a miserable failure at renovation budget and scheduling. I guess it’s appropriate that I have found a career working within the broken structure of the government, where budgets are drawn in crayon and checks can be written without ever having to look at a bank balance.

I suppose that the outside of the house can wait, as I make another hat in hand visit to the wishing well. I have tried to convince a few bankers not to worry about the amount of the money needed. In our new economy, equity is over-rated. Besides, if I can’t pay it back, my kids, grandkids or great-grandkids will do it. Isn't that the American way?

A guy's answer to all the worlds problems...

I read this morning that women’s groups in Kenya are organizing protests to halt the spread of violence, war, or something very terrible happening in their country. I suppose I should have paid more attention to the cause, but I was too fascinated by the course of action they planned to take. The article stated that their plan is to withhold sex from their men for one week. They hope to involve the Prime Minister and other leader’s wives also to make a serious impact.

I appreciate their zeal, and I’m all for stopping violence, war, and terrible things, however, I believe that their efforts are going to be wasted and the plan is doomed to failure. The reasons for this are simple, because men are relatively simple creatures. The fact that these women do not understand this proves that women everywhere tend to over-complicate things.

Now, I know that there are obvious cultural differences between Kenya and America, and marriage might have a different set of expectations in one country that is not adhered to in another, but on certain physical and philosophical principles, most men are the same. In America, the threat of withholding sex for one week would seem ridiculous. Using the term “withholding” implies that there must be regular sex occurring between two people to withhold, therefore you could conclude that, in general, the couple is in a steady relationship or married.

I think everyone would agree that the early part of any relationship has a much higher frequency of sex than the years farther in. Again, there are no absolutes, and some couples may still keep pace with their Newlywed days even twenty five years into a marriage, but they would be the exception, not the rule. I’m not sure about the leaders or decision makers in Kenya, but if I look at the branches of government in the United States, it appears that most of the men are married and have been married for a good, long while. Based on general, but likely accurate assumptions about declining sex frequency between married couples, would it really put a hurt on a man to deprive him of sex for one week? I think the average American married male could manage a week without sex easier than a week without ESPN. Sorry ladies, but you’d have to do a lot better than that.

Also, the notion that lack of sex will make a man less prone to violence is not just wrong, but potentially dangerous. Most crazed killers these days, the ones who take a bag of semi-automatics into a crowded building, are typically described later by family and friends as “loners.” Maybe if they were in a stable relationship with regular sex, they wouldn’t have had so much pent up frustration? Probably not, because crazy is still going to be crazy, but it does make me wonder.

No, I believe the women are going about this all wrong. They should be doing the exact opposite. Rather than depriving men of sex, they should be exhausting them with it. A tired man isn’t going to have the energy to start a fight. How many wars could have been avoided if men stayed at home…too happy, too busy and too tired to care about borders and religious differences?

I can see the eyes rolling now. You are thinking: this man obviously has an agenda. Sorry to disappoint, but I’m just using logic. Besides, I didn’t start this discussion, the women in Kenya did. It’s a simple idea, and one that women the world over should contemplate if they are serious about slowing the spread of violence. Start your man’s day off with some sex, followed by a turkey sandwich. He’ll be as docile as a baby kitten. It’s hard to start a war when you’re napping.