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Steve's macho bachelor floorbed escapade

staff writer

Published: Thursday, January 30, 2014

Updated: Thursday, January 30, 2014 00:01


Here is some rapid-fire backstory for you: I’m getting married.

 

Yep. No typos. Someone in our modern, pattern-functioning society looked at this college humor columnist with the physique of an overused down feather body pillow and actually said, “I want to coexist with that.”

 

Miracles happen, America.

 

In case you aren’t aware, the engagement portion of the whole majestic travail of matrimony is one of the more stressful parts of the commitment. After plans, booking, informing relatives and registering at stores which you, as a dude, thought only sold candles, you learn wedding planning takes quite the lump sum of time.

 

Now believe me, this isn’t sour grapes – I mean, it’d better not be, because overripe grapes will ruin the sorbet and we worked so hard to have a sorbet that is both tasty and matches the welcome rug quilt arrangement for the guests to sign — but the toughest fact in this process is for the dude in wait to filter out what dude stuff the dude will have to let go of. This is why any soon-to-be expensive ring consolidators need consider this advice: Enjoy the guy stuff now. All of it. Take nothing for bravado granted.

 

I’ll share an example, and then you’ll understand, because dude stuff is easy to relate to. Sure, perhaps our adventures in machismo come in very different forms, but trust me when I say you’ll be fully on board when I tell you about floorbed.

 

It started almost two years ago. I walked into my bedroom at an entirely unholy hour because I was out at Wal-Mart for an emergency purchase — “purchase” in this case clarified to mean, “We were out of ice cream sandwiches,” — and attempted to settle in for a short slumber before an early rise.

 

Sure, it seemed simple. It was a few easy steps: find a mattress, slip your embodiment on top of said mattress, apply extruded fabric to the top of embodiment if need be, then commence to temporary comatose and dreaming about meeting Omar Gooding from “Wild and Crazy Kids.”

 

But you see, here’s the thing. I was fresh off of half my weight in ice cream sandwiches and a bustling ten-minute drive in — and I refuse to put this mildly — some slush. In as many ways as one can surmise, my body was soaking in emotional gravity like a sudden breakup, or any episode of “7th Heaven.”

 

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