Selena Robins, Author

I must preface this blog post with a disclaimer: English was NOT my first language. It was actually my third. I also led a sheltered life. Not that I’m using these as excuses for the following little blip in my life that I am sharing. 🙂

I was a newlywed, living on “love” and the afterglow of honeymoon and my groom had jumped on the Joe Weider Bodybuilding product band wagon, and had entered a weight lifting competition.

One morning he asked me to run to the sports store and pick up an athletic support.

He followed up with, “You do know what that is, right?”

I rolled my eyes back to yesterday. “Well of course I know.”

After all, I had seen those muscled gumba’s in his weight lifting magazines (really, I did pick them up to read the articles) wearing all sorts of Mr. Olympia Wannabe gear.

I figured this was my opportunity to be inducted into the Above-and-Beyond-the-Call-of-Dutiful Wife Hall of Fame one day, so I ventured off to the sports store to purchase one athletic support.

I walked in and stood at the cash waiting for the clerk. I’m one of those people who prefer to be waited on, instead of rifling through racks of articles when I’m out of my element, like a sports store.

The hunk-and-a-half clerk behind the counter came to my aid. “Can I help you?”

“Yes,” I said. “I need an Athletic Support for my husband, please.”

”Okay, what size?” he asked.

“Size? Yeah, I guess every guy is built different. Hmmmm, let’s see, he’s really big.”

At that remark, two customers, both male of course came up to the counter.

Hunky Clerk responded with, “Uh-huh.”

I spread my arms out–I mean really wide–to demonstrate his size. “He’s this big.”

At this point the men snickered.

That annoyed me, and even though I was at that time, and still am, rather shy and coy, I turned to the snickering group. “Well what’s so funny?” I asked. “My husband is into health and body building and he’s really big and hard now. Maybe you all should try it.” Okay, maybe I’m not that shy.

The snickers transformed into in-your-face guffaws.
Cripes, what was it with these jock types? What the hell was so funny?

Hunky Clerk was in danger of having the Heimlich maneuver performed on him, as he choked on the peanuts he had been munching.

After practically coughing up a lung, the clerk composed himself and said, “Ma’am, I don’t think you’re accurate in the size.”

Ma’am? This guy was probably older than I was and he called me ma’am?

I didn’t want to address that right now, I wanted to buy the fricken athletic support and leave.

“Look, I should know my own husband.” I spread my arms wide, again. “He’s about 46 inches. Just get me an athletic support that fits that size.”

Okay, so more than once I was asked to measure my husband’s biceps with a measuring tape, and more than once it didn’t measure up to 46 inches, but, hey I was in the initial stages of supportive wifehood.

“Well,” I said. “Maybe not forty-six inches, more like forty-two. Get me something for a guy who is forty-two inches.”

One customer, whose hair cut looked like a hen’s patooty in a windstorm, looked me straight in the eye and asked, “What planet does your husband come from?”

How utterly rude, I thought. I was getting more than pissed right off now.

I wanted out of this store badly and I wasn’t in the mood to be the local jock’s entertainment of the day.

I gave Mr. Hen Hair my best PMS glare and then addressed the collective jock group. “He’s forty-two inches, give or take…maybe even wider. You have a problem with that? I thought women were jealous of each other’s bodies. With you guys every size on your body matters doesn’t it? Well, let me tell you something, we really don’t care that much for that kind of width. Personally, I was attracted to his nice eyes.”

They laughed even louder.

Little boys in long pants, that’s what these men were.

With the patience of a Saint, I asked, “Do you guys get your ya-ya’s standing around a sport store, making fun of women shoppers? Let the clerk fish out this athletic support thingy, and then you can all go back to comparing golf scores.” Geesh

Hunky Clerk coughed again. (By the way, it was the early 90’s we called hot guys, hunks).

I would have offered him a cough drop had he maintained better crowd control, and got me this stupid athletic support so I could leave.

“Ma’am,” Hunky Clerk said. “I don’t think you know what you really want. . .”

That did it. “Oh please, don’t try to impress me with your sports mumbo jumbo. Just get me the thing. And I don’t want to hear about brand names etc. Get me the largest one you have, I’ll stretch it out, and be able to tell if it will fit. I’ve put my arms around my husband enough times.”

More laughter.

Hunky Clerk left the peanut gallery and returned with three packages.

“Small,” he announced, slapping one of the packages on the counter. “Medium.” He slapped this package next to the small one. “And large.” He lined this one next to the medium, stood back, folded his arms over his chest and asked, “Which one would you like?”

BIG GULP!

The atmosphere turned as quiet as an ant pissing on a cotton ball.

I picked up the Large sized one. “Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, so that’s what an athletic support is? Oh my.”

The night before, my soon-to-be-pulverized husband had talked about buying a leather belt that went around his chest and then wound around his waist to protect his kidneys, and he talked about line definition.

Wasn’t that an athletic support?

Okay, I may not have been paying a whole lot of attention at that point, because all I was concerned about was that the slick oil he used on his definitions not drip onto my newly washed floor. Besides, if I had to listen to one more protein powder drink that was good for us, wheat germ and the proper way to lift anything, I was going to scream. Hey, I worked hard to earn my own heavy weight title; Choco-Cocoa-Queen.

Mr. Clerk–at closer inspection, he really wasn’t that hunky–lifted a brow. “Now do you see why we didn’t believe the size you ordered.”

I inspected the packages on the counter. “Hmmm. I gather that cuppy part is not to cover one’s nose?”

“No, Ma’am.”

Again with the ma’am!

I held my head up high. “I don’t like the color or your selection. I think I’ll try another store.”

I headed for the front door, put my hands on my hips and addressed the group, who were now probably giving each other mental high-fives.

I said, “I’ll have the last laugh. I’m Italian, I know people. Yeah, that’s right, those kind of people.” I know, I had just stereotyped my whole culture, but at that point a gal had to pull out all the ammunition she could muster.

“We don’t get mad, we get even,” I continued. “I know how to put a curse on all of you that will last longer than your hairlines.” I waved my hand up and down and all around. “May you endure a lifetime of running to the drug store in the middle of the night, trying to figure out if you need maxi’s, scented, unscented, or light days.”

With that, I turned on my heels, and sauntered out of the store, I may have even added an extra roll to my hip action.

When I was sure I was out of their site range, I ran to my car with the intent of rendering my husband’s forty-two inch chest up and gazing at the moon.
 

Now had he said, pick up me a testicular cup. That would have been a different story.

You gals get me, right?