Fear of Commitments

A great deal of what I know about being a man, I learned from my father. Some lessons were intentional, others weren't.

When I was a small boy, I was a cub scout. My troop met at my elementary school, led by my friend Rusty's mom. I enjoyed scouting. My older brothers had been scouts, so I wore a hand-me-down uniform shirt. Being a large family, we didn't buy each kid new stuff if suitable old stuff was laying around. I didn't have official uniform pants. I wore a pair of blue corduroy pants instead.

The troop put on a cake auction to raise money for something, I don't remember what. The idea was for each scout to bake a cake, then auction it off at a large meeting of scouts, their families, and friends.

With the help of my mother, I baked a chocolate cake with white frosting, "CUBS" spelled out across the cake in red cinnamon cake decoration. I was pretty proud of it.

The family loaded up into the VW bus to head to the bake sale. I forgot something, so I put the cake on the seat and ran back into the house to retrieve it. I returned to the car and, in my youthful excitement, forgot that the cake was sitting on the seat.

I sat on it.

My father is a good man. My father is an exceptional man. I am certain that this was a situation that he had never encountered before in his parenting career, and he handled it as best he could.

I didn't want to go through with the auction. My corduroy pants were covered in white icing. The cake was smashed. I was embarrassed. I was crying.

My father told me that I had made a commitment to the troop. Men see their commitments through. I would auction my cake, and that was final.

The tables were set up in a large semi-circle. Each scout, on his turn, carried their cake around the semi-circle, where the bidders would "ooh" and "ahhh", then make their bids.

I did as I was told. I walked that semi-circle with my crushed cake, icing stuck in the cords of my backside.

And I was laughed at. Not with. At. Loud, finger pointing, nudge the guy next to you, embarrassing laughter.
Little kids don't really know how to deal with that. Some adults don't either.

I officially stopped scouting shortly thereafter. I stopped going to the meetings immediately, instead hiding until the meetings were over, then going home.

I am a very funny guy. I do humorous things a lot. I make jokes constantly. If I make you laugh, I am happy about it. I am the stereotypical class clown.

When I was in 10th grade, my old friend Rusty told this story to a group of guys, much to their amusement. He was messing with me, as teenage boys do. He didn't mean any harm.

I don't remember hitting Rusty, but I did. Several times.

I'm sorry Rusty.