(One man’s survival story)
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I’m single. Many guys are. I’m also stupid. Many guys are, um, hoping I’ll move on.

And I probably should move on. But, as somebody stupid just pointed out, I’m stupid.

You can find lots of single guys out there. For example, the Apostle Paul was single, though some liberals insist we believe that St. Paul was gay. I’ll have to admit I missed that discussion in theology class. One thing Paul was not: stupid. The man spoke at least four languages, wrote nearly a third of the Bible’s New Testament, and … was single.

Hmm. Maybe I’m not so stupid … I just need to pick up three more languages.

As I’ve pointed out in earlier columns, I’m not a bachelor; I’m single. And yes, there is a difference. Bachelor is a condition; single guy is a decision. Being a bachelor is a (hopefully) transient state. Bachelors don’t actually want to be bachelors. And neither do single guys. But bachelors don’t want to be single guys, at least not for long.

Bachelors are still looking for someone to impress. Single guys are looking for something to read. Bachelors are bar hopping; single guys are grocery shopping. On the weekend, bachelors are stepping out; single guys are ordering in.

Bachelors dress for the occasion. Single guys occasionally get dressed.

But, as somebody keeps pointing out, I’m also stupid. Why I’m bothering you with that world’s worst-kept secret ever is that, until recently, I didn’t realize just how stupid I am. It took extended exposure to married guys for me to see the truth.

For the record, married guys are an entirely different discussion. Married guys have evolved … but then so have viruses. And recently, after sitting in on a multi-day seminar filled with husbands and husband-oriented conversations, I’ve had a revelation — by all odds, I should be dead, or at least horribly maimed. In the married-guy crowd, nobody can figure out how I’ve managed to survive without a wife’s, uh, counsel.

And after several days of anecdotal evidence, I’m beginning to wonder, myself. But somehow — by random chance, sheer luck, or divine intervention —  I almost always manage to wear matching socks. I’ve never poisoned myself at a buffet. I’ve never rammed into that car that’s almost way nearly too close to us in the next lane. Nobody has ever dropped in a cold faint because I picked out that tie. I’ve been able to attend countless Christmas parties without first being cautioned, “Now, don’t embarrass me.” And I figure out, on my own, when it’s time to leave.

Apparently, married guys regularly have conversations like these:

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Husband: “I’m hungry.”
Wife: “No, you’re not.”

Married Guy: “I gotta go to the bathroom.”
Better Half: “No, you don’t.”

He: “‘Let’s make love in the moonlight.”
Soulmate: “Yeah, that’s happening.”

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One married guy shared that he’s now learned that he breathes (and he does it way too loud). An elderly wedded gentlemen was told, “You do not drink whole milk.” What’s that, fifty-sixty years he’s been drinking the wrong milk? Another espoused dude helpfully points out that he now knows the exact distance that people can hear him:

“Knock that off! People can hear you a mile away!”

One of the groomed grooms, obviously proud of how far he’d evolved from his pre-nuptial depravity, confessed that he … hang on to something … he used to wear his shoes in the house.

And speaking of shoes — I once received, amongst all the daily junk mail, a coupon for $50 off any purchase at a local women’s shoe boutique. Of course, for a single guy like me, that’s about as useless as a cowbell at Catholic mass. So I called up a married friend and asked him if he wanted me to offer his wife the fifty dollar discount coupon.

His response?

“Tell you what. I’ll give you two hundred dollars NOT to tell her.”