Don't let my scraggly beard and penetrating Russian gaze fool you. I am in no way a manly man. I have the emotional range of the average female and the sensitivity of a child. I'm nonconfrontational and have always had to use brains before brawn to get out of sticky situations. Yet for some extraordinarily bizarre reason, the simple task (well within the range of a trained monkey) of changing out the headlight on my truck and afterward looking down upon greasy and blackened hands somehow gives me a delusional sense of masculine accomplishment.
Luckily the second it was done I started pondering the absurdity of my fickle human mind as I scrubbed furiously with dishwasher soap to get the black off my skin and out from under my finger nails, and life went back to normal. Perhaps I'll never be able to fully comprehend the bizarre things that set off my normally withdrawn testosterone, but the mystery of such silly behavior is just one of those things that makes human existence tolerable.