The painful difference between men, guys

No doubt about it, I’m a guy.

I knew that. I know the difference between guys and men, as I’m sure most ladies know.

Guys function — barely, mind you — in the now. Men consider the present and the future.

Men plan things in advance, while guys grab handfuls of their pants seat with both hands and fly, usually by night.

Men have inner children who are usually well behaved and come to the forefront only when beckoned. Guys have inner adults, most of whom are securely tied up and bound to a chair in the backs of heads.

Hermes was a guy. Prometheus was a man.

Identifying myself

My guyhood became painfully clear when I drove the point home by slamming a straight screwdriver deep into my left index finger while trying to screw a curtain tieback into a sill in the Eldest’s new apartment.

I, of course, brought a tool box with everything a guy could possibly need: two Phillips screwdrivers and two straight screwdrivers of different lengths, a box cutter, wood glue, caulk, a punch, vise grips, small pipe wrench, pliers, wire cutters, a flashlight and duct tape.

With help from a family friend, the Eldest was moved in. With help from his real man’s tool box that included a wireless screw gun, saw, drill, level, bits and screws and other handy items for making holes in some of the hardest wood ever put into a residential building, the bed, headboard and curtains went up lickity-split.

It wasn’t until trying to install some accessories that this guy discovered how nice it would be to be a man. Without the man’s screw gun, putting towel racks in the bathroom required the guy to eyeball the heights to make it level and use the punch to start a screw hole in the door.

Without a hammer — leave it to a guy to forget a hammer — I had to use a nearby brick to drive the punch into the hollow-core door.

Unfortunately, the punch was ineffective when trying to install the hardware into the solid hardwood around the bedroom window. So were the screwdrivers.

The long-shank Phillips screws’ heads quickly stripped hardwood. So, this guy decided to go back to Lowe’s to get some shorter screws, which had straight heads. That required the use of a stubby straight screwdriver to get enough torque. It was in the middle of some serious torque that the driver slid off the screw head and directly into my index finger, slicing deep and causing blood to flow like Jed Clampett’s oil.

Taking the point

Real men would have expressed pain, described to their spouse what had happened, cleaned the wound and requested a bandage.

No, a real man would have had the proper tool in the first place and therefore never been injured.

Being a guy, however, meant that I squealed in pain like a struck weasel. Then, while experiencing a disassociative moment as blood spilled over my hand and onto my shoes, I thought of the television episode, famously parodied on “Saturday Night Live,” in which Julia Child carved into her own skin.

“What happened?” a voice called from the other room.

“I seem to have cut myself,” I said.

“Oh,” said the voice.

I wiped the blood on my pants and kept screwing until the tieback was fastened.

Luckily, guys are trainable, to a certain extent. When we recently moved the Youngest to Blacksburg, I brought along the Big Guy’s Toolbox with everything from corded drill, nails, screws and bits to the Allen, Allen, Allen and Allen wrenches, a socket set and a hammer.

I didn’t need a damn one of them.

I’m sure a real man would not be so disappointed.