Workshop
Wranglings
by Eric Miller
Dr. Cutter
Hack, a wonderful surgeon with an unfortunate
name, found himself as the lone male at a health
conference at which his wife was an presenter.
“Check
out the display tables until the workshops start.
I’ll catch up to you after my presentation.
Wish me luck,” she said, with a radiant
smile.
After checking
out the tables, Cutter took a seat in one of the
workshop rooms.
“It takes
a special man to do what you are doing,” the
woman beside him noted.
“And why
is that?,” he asked.
“Not only
are you the only male in this workshop, the rumor
is that you are the only male at the conference.”
“Really?,”
he responded, as he looked around the room.
“Never
fear, sir, we are all harmless.”
“I never
doubted it,” he answered.
All the women
in the room were talking loudly and with great
animation about womanly things, while awaiting
the start of the formal workshop program.
“Oh sir,”
one of the ladies called out.
“Are you
speaking to me?,” Cutter asked, as he
looked over his shoulder at a bevy of
womanly grins and twinkling eyes.
“As you
are the only sir in the room, and the whole
conference as well, the answer to your query is
yes. My friends and I were just discussing our
belief that men go through life singing along
with Peter Pan that they don’t want to grow
up. Do you sing that song?”
Little did the
woman realize to whom she was speaking. Although
his last name was Hack, no one had a sharper
knife-edged tongue than Cutter. He rose slowly
from his chair and turned to address the ladies
whom he felt were enjoying this nonsense a wee
bit to much, at his expense. Pausing to heighten
the theatricality sparking in the air, he looked
squarely at his interrogator and pointed his
index finger straight at her.
“No man
has, or ever will, grow up,” he stated.
“It is the blessing of being male, the
superior gender. Accept it, embrace it, deal with
it, and get over it. Pray that if there is such a
thing as reincarnation, you will return as a male.”
Bedlam broke
out. The woman became a launched missile crashing
into his midsection and taking him down with a
ferociousness only reserved for preventing a
running back from crossing the goal line. Every
woman in the room piled on, except one, who
finally blew a whistle. She offered her hand and
pulled him up for all to see the frilly pink
dress in which he was covered.
“We girls
think that you will be safer dressed like this
for the rest of the conference,” his nemesis
said, as the other women danced about like
a victorious football team.
“No, I
really don’t think that’s the right
outfit for tonight. It’s just not you,”
his wife said, as she unexpectedly walked into
the workshop. "It certainly is lovely; very
chic, with nuance and elegance, but it makes you
look fat."
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