TEAM LAST CALL

That was her first mistake. Her second mistake was grossly underestimating the speed at which I could regress to the mindset of an 18-year-old.

There is a state of being that a man enters whenever he’s left alone, as if a veil were lifted from his eyes. I call it the state of Manlightenment, which, once achieved, is like being thrust into a long forgotten dimension, one in which entire meals are made of beef jerky; in which the only required uniform is your favorite pair of underpants; in which “T-shirt,” “hanky” and “napkin” all refer to the same piece of cloth.

As my wife closed the door behind her, I stood in the middle of the living room, paralyzed by the limitless possibilities now open to me. What would I do first? Surf across our hardwood floors in my socks? Rent the Rambo trilogy? Eat an entire chocolate cake with a pair of chopsticks?

I could do anything. I could put roller skates on the cat. I could bite the heads off all the Goldfish crackers and throw the rest back in the box. I could put on my wife’s underwear and prance around to Kylie Minogue songs. Not that I would, but I could. Forget I said that.

The only things standing between me and complete Manlightenment were the dogs. The dogs represented responsibility. They needed to be fed. They needed to go for walks. They needed to wear funny hats! Come here, doggies!

Minutes later, my dogs sat on the living room rug looking up at me, the Jack Russell in an adorable little sombrero, the cocker spaniel in a little pink bow that slid down over her left eye. They looked confused and ashamed, not very festive at all. Clearly what was needed here was a pep talk.

“Alright, listen, dogs. We have two short days to live life without boundaries. Think of it like a weekend in a giant field full of defenseless bunnies and fire hydrants and unlimited access to the cat’s litterbox. Yum! So you can see why this is important to me. Here’s my point: for the next 48 hours, let’s not bother Daddy with our usual complaints. If you get hungry, here are two large pizzas. If you need to go to the bathroom, here are two large pizza boxes. And let’s see ... well, that’s pretty much all you do. OK, do we have an understanding?”

I looked at the dogs. They looked back at me. One passed gas, the other curled into a circle and began licking himself. I knew then that we were all on the same page.

Admittedly, I had a few concerns about being able to achieve Manlightenment after such a long hiatus. What if I was too mature? What if my tastes had changed? Maybe I’d been stuck in a different reality for too long, the reality of man living in a grown up world, working a grown up job, married to a grown up wife, slave to a seemingly endless list of hard-to-remember rules.

“Don’t burp the alphabet at the dinner table.”

“Don’t answer the door in your underpants.”

“Take the trash out.”

“Don’t burp the pledge of allegiance at the dinner table.”

“How many days have you been wearing those underpants?”

“I told you to take the trash out.”

“If you teach our children to burp at the dinner table, I’ll kill you.”

“Is that smell coming from you?”

“You forgot to take the trash out!”

These kind of rules, obviously, are enough to break any man’s spirit. But had they broken mine? Was I too far gone? Or was I still capable of recapturing my manhood? I pondered these questions long and hard as I stood in the kitchen, in my tighty whiteys and a cowboy hat, dunking hot dogs into the peanut butter jar and sipping Red Bull through a Twizzler.

It occurred to me that five years ago this would have been a perfectly normal scene in my life, give or take the tighty whiteys. But the fact is, I am no longer a 23-year-old bachelor, and it’s exactly this kind of behavior that I, by which I mean my wife, will not tolerate.

Over the next few hours, I learned a lot of important things about myself, including the following:

1. While I can fit eight dimes up my right nostril, I can only fit seven up my left;

2. I don’t need my hands to operate the TV remote, or to eat grapes;

3. I don’t look good in bikini briefs;

4. My head is nearly a half-pound over the average weight;

5. You can totally get razor burn on places other than your face;

6. I cannot eat baked beans while doing a headstand.

I also learned that chocolate sauce is delicious over chili and potato chips, but not very good at all on a kielbasa. I know, I was as shocked as you about the kielbasa.

That night I dreamt that my internal organs were going on strike. They were all parading around my living room, waving little picket signs that said things like, “Just say no to chili dogs after midnight!” and “Digest this: we demand better working conditions!”

In the morning, I woke up to what I could only assume was an angry mountain cat trying to claw its way out of my stomach. I spent the next 24 hours sprawled out on the couch, whimpering softly as thousands of tiny little Irishmen slipped on miniature kilts and performed an endless round of Riverdance in my belly. And then, just as I was about to succumb to the delirium of my pain, my wife came walking through the door.

“Oh, what’s wrong, baby?” she cooed. “I’ll make you some soup and tea, and you’ll feel better in no time!”

I looked at the dogs. They looked back at me. One rolled over so my wife could scratch his belly, the other lay her head on my wife’s knee and went to sleep. I knew then that we were all on the same page.