If you're one of my followers, you know there are a few rules I hold near and dear to my heart. One that I wrote about recently was that men should not use umbrellas. We were not put on earth to live in absolute comfort at all times; for generations, civilizations existed without umbrellas and they managed to survive. If you get wet, you'll dry off. To use an umbrella is counter-masculine – they are reserved for women, who are fragile and pretty.
I live by this rule – life or death. The other day I was at work and a monsoon rolled through Manhattan. The kind that you can't open a window without your socks getting drenched. And it was not stopping. I was at the office. There was no food at my office, nor at my home. I needed some. But it was raining too hard for me to leave. What did I do? I starved. I waited my turn for the rain to go away, and when Mother Nature deemed that I had sat patiently, I escaped the office to the train. It was still raining – not torrentially – but enough that I was still quite wet. I wore that rainwater all the way home – on my shirt, pants and shoes – where I showered, changed, and was subsequently dry. Long story short – I survived.
Another rule like this is that men should not use suitcases. I use a duffel bag. I use that for two reasons. 1) I am a man; I do not have many earthly possessions; I do not need them for happiness or for survival. I should be able to travel anywhere in the world, for any amount of time, with the things I can fit in a duffel bag. You will not see me lugging around a suitcase to travel anywhere. You may as well say, "Look at me, I have a suitcase, I have so many things because I am high-maintenance, I am weak-minded, and do not have the will power or survival skills to survive in a location alien to home." How embarrassing? If you forget something it will be there when you get back; if you need something you can buy it. And 2) I am far too able-bodied to allow a suitcase to roll around on wheels. I don't go to the gym and maintain peak physical condition to wheel around a bag. I am strong – I carry my bag. Whether that be on-shoulder or in-hand, I refuse to let my belongings touch the ground.
Well, you see where this is going. Another rule of mine is that men should not use the restroom on airplanes. And as a man with character and integrity, I have to admit – I recently broke this rule.
Yesterday I had a flight to Oklahoma City from LaGuardia that boarded at 6:35. I was tracking the Maps app all day, and it said that LaGuardia is a 30-minute drive from my apartment.
The Maps app was wrong.
Thinking I had plenty of time, I called my Uber at 5:20 – conventional wisdom suggesting I would get there at 5:50; 35 minutes before boarding? Plenty of time.
However, conventional wisdom did not agree. What I had admittedly failed to consider is that traffic leaving Manhattan would be far worse at rush hour than it would be during midday. I know – foolish. But how often am I driving in Manhattan? Never? It hadn't occurred to me!
After 14 minutes of driving and still being in Kips Bay, my nerves started acting up. I kept tracking the Uber's arrival time, seeing how long it said on Maps, and seeing if my boarding time had gotten delayed by some divine intervention (it hadn't).
After an angst-filled ride, I arrived at LaGuardia, sprinted through security, and made it to my gate with seven minutes to spare. But by then the anxiety of missing the last flight from New York to Oklahoma for the day had gotten to me, and despite my severe dehydration efforts, nature had called.
Finally – relief. I made it on time, I was going to Oklahoma, and I had 3.5 hours to read my book, listen to the Ryen Russillo Podcast, and dissect Stella Lefty's new album.
Or so I thought.
Not even that long after takeoff, I realized a harrowing reality: my dehydration efforts were not nearly as effective as I had originally deduced. With roughly three hours left in my flight, I was left with an ethical dilemma: sit in discomfort for hours, or disobey one of my commandments. When I say this, I don't say it facetiously, I don't say it lightly – who am I to be a man of principle if I will not hold myself to my own standards when no one is watching, when no one will ever know?
I battled with this internal conundrum for several pages – but inside, it felt like days passed by. After several pages I realized I was so distracted by both the discomfort and my own personal turmoil the debacle was causing me that I had not even retained what was occurring within the pages. It was then I made the executive decision – bite the bullet.
I sneaked to the restroom, keeping my head down, and getting in and out as fast as possible as I swayed back and forth at the mercy of the plane's turbulence – punishing me, in a way.
I returned to my seat, and I don't say this sarcastically when I say this: I was ashamed. I was embarrassed. I broke a rule of mine, one that I truly believe. I knew the only thing to do was to come clean – like a sinner pleads for mercy at the confessional, I too must face the music to all of you.
Going forward I'll be better. I will continue to scoff at umbrellas, I will continue to scoff at suitcases. And if I ever falter – which we all do – I will not shy away from my wrongdoings. Happy travelling.