"If I spit, they will take my spit and frame it as great art."
-- Pablo Picasso
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| "His and hers," 5-2-14 |
Rose:
"Teach me to ride like a man."
Jack:
"Chew tobacco like a man."
Rose:
"And spit like a man!"
Jack:
"What, they didn't teach you that in finishing school?"
Rose:
"No!"
Jack:
"Come on. I'll show ya. Let's do it. Come on. I'll show ya how."
-- Kate Winslet, Leonardo DiCaprio, Titanic
My college cross country coach used to send me on training runs with the men's team. The other girls on my team couldn't always sustain the rigorous training pace I needed to challenge and push me hard enough. So I ran with the boys.
Guy runners don't like having a girl in their midst. Otherwise nice guys who are friendly and kind become like the bulls at Pamplona once you're on a serious run with them. They don't think it's cool, or cute, or sexy, or adorable or amusing. To them, you are nothing but a nuisance. You are also competition, and they will die before they let you beat them.
They will not slow down for you.
They will not wait for you.
They will not talk to you.
They will not acknowledge you.
They don't care if you're tired.
They don't care if you're hurt.
They don't want to chit chat.
They won't laugh at your jokes.
They're there to run. Period.
If you want their respect, just shut up and run, balls-out.
And you sure as shit better know how to spit right.
If you do a girlie "ptooey" that dribbles down your chin, your leg, or God forbid lands on someone else, you will be ruthlessly and cruelly mocked. Don't mistake this ridicule for favor. They aren't joshing, or flirting. They aren't teasing you because they like you. They are not trying to have a conversation with you. Spitting like a girl is an epic fail, and they will continue to shame you until you either quit, or fix it.
Thankfully, the dudes I ran with cared way too much about the dignity and integrity of their pack to allow a lame spitter like me to sully it. They saw it as their duty, their responsibility even, to school me on the finer points of spitting like a man. Under their tutelage, I learned how to roll a blob of my own saliva and hold it between the curved end of my tongue and the roof of my mouth, just behind my upper front teeth. They taught me how to launch the properly-positioned blob fast and far with a blast of air from way, way back in my throat. It took a couple of tries, but I was a quick study, and before long, I was spitting with impressive distance and velocity and a satisfying, manly "thw," followed by a respectable "splat" on the pavement.
They taught me how to gauge the wind so that my spit carried away from me instead of blowing back in my face. They even remedied my sniffle-and-wipe runny nose technique by showing me how to blow out snot by pressing one nostril closed and blasting mucus out the other side.
Once I got the hang of it, my street cred went way up with those guys.
They still didn't want me there, but at least I wasn't an embarrassment anymore.
Yesterday was pretty windy, and I was out cycling for a couple of hours, and inevitably, I needed to spit. And every time I sent a spitball flying, I felt grateful for the dudes who did a good thing and helped a girl get it right.
