Dude-less In Topeka

I received a harrowing email the other day from my old friend Sal who lives in Topeka. I could provide you with a fascinating and highly entertaining back-story on all things Sal, but such levity might serve to undercut the message here: Beware, men. They might be coming for you next. What follows, then, is, verbatim, the email I received from Sal:

Guy, greetings! I just took our poodle Chantelle for a gorgeous walk on this beautiful day and decided to take a few minutes to catch up with you. I hope this missive finds you well. I know this time of year is not your favorite. May I recommend eating lots of citrus and investing in one of those high-powered sun lamps--I think you'll find a good deal on them at Bed, Bath & Beyond. And go see the new Jennifer Aniston movie for some much-needed chuckles. Oh, hey! I just received an email informing me that the pajama-gram I ordered for Michelle for Valentine's Day has just been sent. Yes, it's a good day indeed. Furthermore ... oh shit, Guy, who am I kidding? I'm dying here. There's no other way to say it, Guy (sorry about the use of Guy, I know you hate it as much I do, but as you'll see, I can no longer use the D word unless it's in the negative sense) I've been de-Dude-ed. I know you think that is impossible, me, Sal, not being a D-D-D Guy, so did I, until my little post-Christmas gift this year--a platinum Dude-erectomy. Yeah, Guy, there is such a thing. Dude-erectomy: "the complete (with purchase of our platinum plan) removal of any and all genetic/environmental/accidental factors that make the otherwise normal male an insufferable Dude." Guy, it's permanent. I'm an ex-Dude. I hope you'll still be my friend. And I apologize for dumping all of this on you during mid-February, that Guy-precious time when you're still basking in the afterglow of the Super Bowl (you'll never know--I hope/warn--the pain that just typing Super Bowl causes my fingers) and awaiting the pinnacle moment in Guydom--the arrival of the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue. But now is the appointed time (it's all programmed, you see: they told me that part of the total healing process would be such a heart-to-heart confab as this, approximately six weeks after the procedure; as with everything so far, they were so right).

It was a glorious, if normal, time for me. As usual I had taken a vacation week between Christmas and New Year's to do some work around the house and enjoy all the bowl games. With the new chainsaw I had bought I had gotten us a great tree and gerry-rigged a wonderful stand for it using Little Sallie's old wagon. I had cleaned out the pipes and tubing on my vintage Brewmeister, bought a couple new kegs wholesale for the duration of the bowl season, been to Costco to stock up on snacks, and even turned the cushions over on the couch. I paid little Tina to dust the wide-screen screen, and I put on my favorite old sweats and hoodie for a week of sheer football bliss. There was exactly three minutes and fourteen seconds left in the second quarter of the Product Placement Bowl between Colgate and Occidental, third and two, Colgate, on the Occidental seventeen, down 10-7 when it happened (they couldn't even wait for halftime, let alone a TV timeout; Guy, can you believe the last bit of football I was fated to see was Colgate-Occidental?). Before I knew it a troop of de-Duders stormed the basement steps; before that third down whistle blew I was in the middle of a full-scale Dudervention. It wasn't all man-hating women either. No, Guy, the majority of the dozen or so de-Duders were men. Men formerly like my former self--Guys, through and through. But they were strong. Not one of them, including my old friend Ralph (I think I told you about him before, the guy who turned me onto those great cigars and who I used to go shooting with), even stole a glance at the game throughout the duration of the Dudervention. Quite amazing, when you think of it. The memory of those first few minutes of de-Duding is still too raw to explain in detail, as I was told it would be for a few months. Suffice to say I uttered a few WTF Is This's, gorged (in denial, I later was to learn) on stale chips and old nacho cheese, and, toward the end, in what I was later to learn is the final act of desperation, and, paradoxically, the first step to recovery, tried to make them all go away by pointing the remote at each and every one of them and clicking random buttons. To no avail. Before the game was over (for the first couple days I begged people to tell me the final score, now, blissfully I will say, I don't care) I was being escorted from my own basement with a suitcase full of new, non-pullover, clothes. Ralph insisted I hug the Brewmeister one last time before I was put in a non-descript van and driven God knows where (they had me lying in back, breathing deeply to prevent the very-real danger of a sudden cardiac event). The long drive was eerily silent until I picked up on what the horde of them were chant-whispering as we drove: "Dude-away, Dude-away, Dude-away ..." on into the night.

The Dude-erectomy dual de-programming/re-programming site was quite quaint and cute (Guy, look at that phrase--quite quaint and cute--can you believe I just typed it as easily as I used to type my old one and only password--KICKASS123? This might also be the place to assure you that the Dude-erectomy did not, in any way, affect my sexuality; to be honest, Guy, things are only better in that department. Who knew romance is definitely better when you give it more time than a TV timeout? Dude-less, yes, Guy, but still 100% a man). The place could have passed for a B&B (that's Bed and Breakfast in post-Dude talk, not Beer and Broads, fyi). Everybody who worked there seemed to be named either Holly or Denny, and despite the at-times confrontational nature of the procedure--mainly caused by my stubborn clinging to Dudeness--couldn't have been nicer and more helpful. Not to say the fortnight I spent there was all peaches and cream. Without divulging too many details (I'm a sworn convert, it's true, I say with passion if still mixed with a bit of wistfullness that I'm assured will pass in "no time"), there was an intense melange of late night wake-ups to view endless loops of Jackass (the eventual pukings purgings hurt, but in a good way), late morning close readings and heart-rending discussions of Jodi Picoult books, tongue excercises to rid one's voice box of the capability to say the D word, headphoned Enya marathons, body-awareness and control sessions (I haven't scratched myself south of my nose in four weeks! burped belched or farted passed wind in three!), and sensibility re-assessing (the word "tits" no longer makes me giggle or even ripples my pulse rate). So much more, but you'll have to experience it yourself (truly, I hope you do; Gosh, Guy, Denny was right--just writing this email, which started out as a lament, a warning, is now nothing but a celebration of liberation! OMG, another step in my recovery! I'll have to text Holly as soon as I'm done here). I was excited when they told me it was time for my final exam. The night of a playoff game I was dropped off alone at a strip mall where serendipitously a Hooters sits next to a Barnes & Noble. Denny (a different one) simply said, "We'll pick you up in three hours. You have the power of choice, now, Sal. Remember that always." Maybe there was choice involved, but it seemed so natural to me. I entered the Barnes & Noble, gathered a hefty stack of home decor magazines, ordered a whole wheat scone and a small latte, and spent a wonderful three hours in a comfy chair pondering different ideas on how to makeover the basement. Before I knew it Holly was standing over me, beaming, and said, "Should we celebrate by buying one of those scented candles over there?" Cinnamon, Guy, I bought a cinnamon candle! Wish you were here.

P.S. I just returned from book club (every week--Sunday nights--we discuss a different Nora Roberts book [she's also J.D. Robb, did you know?] at which pace, even keeping up with her new releases, we should be able to read her entire canon by the year 2032!). It was the big First Sunday Night in February meeting of the club, where we discuss one of Nora's stirring trilogies. I brought the brie, a very soothing, slightly peppery one. Even two weeks ago I would have begged you to tell me all about what happened in the big game. Now I don't even care. In fact, Michelle has remarked, approvingly, how the words I now use seem to feature, less and less, the letters E, S, P, N. Guy, I'm a new man! If you can get it to Cleveland, the Brewmeister's all yours.