It's My TV….It's My Peanut Butter

I’ve always said I’m grateful to have had a brother (even though growing up there were plenty of times I wasn’t grateful to have my brother) because I think I understand the opposite sex much better than girls who grow up without them. There’s something about spending that much time in a nonsexual relationship with a member of the opposite sex that is very educational and helps you avoid certain misunderstandings if you start dating the opposite sex when you grow up. Now my brother and I are six years apart and even though we have a good relationship we weren’t super close, so I’m sure there are plenty of things I still don’t understand about guys, but I still find myself from time to time explaining male behavior to friends who’ve done more dating than I have, just because they don’t get men.

Tonight I was reminded of just exactly how much women can remain a mystery to men without sisters. I’m often amused to discover that my male friends actually believed certain movie stereotypes about women; for example, they’re often disappointed to learn that at slumber parties we don’t sit around in our underwear braiding each others’ hair (apologies to our male readers if I just shattered any fantasies). But I had never encountered the particular delusion my friend K suffered from until tonight.

K is at a special disadvantage in that he has no sisters, he works in a male dominated profession, and he’s gay. He’s spent seriously limited time around women. Tonight a bunch of us were drinking some apocalypse cocktails (don’t ask) and one of our mutual friends left, leaving behind a skirt she had just been given. We realized it after she left and there was a lot of joking about what to do with it. Someone offered it to me, as the lone remaining female, but I quickly demurred on the grounds that the lime green color would make me look like I was suffering from a liver disease. Then K picked it up and pretended like he was going to put it on. He looked inside and said, “Wait, where are the pants?”

We all looked back at him blankly, not knowing what he meant and he said, “It’s just a tube of fabric.” We pointed out that’s what all skirts are and he looked totally confused. He motioned to me (I was wearing a skirt and tights) and said, “Yours has pants attached to it.” I shook my head and stated that I was simply wearing tights underneath my skirt. “But you have short type things under the skirt,” he insisted. I shook my head. “So if I looked under your skirt I would see your underwear?” “Sort of.” I tried not to look too offended when he shivered at the prospect.

Turns out that he believed all skirts were skorts or that they were made like dance skirts with trunks attached. Poor boy had just never had occasion to put one on take one off, or look underneath one. I guess us ladies retain more mystery than we think.

My house smells like boy now. Unlike Kristy and Cammy, I grew up with a sister. We shared a teeny little room and bunked beds until sometime in high school. I’ve had roommates, both in college and for shorter periods over the summers when friends rotated through on graduate school internships and dipping-toes-in-the-DC-waters expeditions. Most of them have been female.

For reasons of economic necessity, I now have a boy in my house. This particular boy has been through once before on a summer stint and is now also in the area looking for work. He needed a room, I needed a roommate. There is no romantic interest here, no awkwardness, none at all: homeboy is gay and a very good friend. Problems solved. Except…my house smells like boy now.

I am told by those with brothers, boyfriends, and husbands that you get used to the boy smell. It really is a peculiar odor, very heavy on the gym sock with a hint of dead animal. Thankfully, it’s still nice enough outside that I can keep a window open for some air circulation; otherwise I don’t know what would happen. I have a little more time between now and the coldest depths of darkest January to desensitize myself to the stank. It’s a little touchy still, especially if I walk past his room to get to the bathroom, but I think I’ll make it.

The truly weird thing is that he’s not dirty, quite the opposite, in fact. He doesn’t have much stuff here and what he does have is contained in his room. He showers, he does laundry on a weekly basis, he cleans up his dishes, and washes his hands regularly. I ask you: FROM WHENCE COMETH THE STANK?
Help a girl out!