Sometimes you have to blow in some insulation.
I had to, and I didn't even know what I was doing.
I even had to go to one of those giant home repair stores that smell like screw driver handles and potting soil.
Ronnie told me about the horrible things that can happen when you blow in your own insulation without knowing what you are doing.
Then he said contemptuously, "Suppose you'll have to rent your own blower, huh?"
I knew it.
I knew I looked like one of those guys who doesn't have his own insulation blower.
All that wasted time.
All that manlife spent incomplete.
After showing him I could do twenty push-ups without sticking my butt in the air like a Sodomite, Ronnie released the blower and a mountain of insulation into my custody.
I knew you had to wear lots of protection around insulation.
What can I possibly say?
It was dark, cramped, itchy.
I couldn't see a thing up there, and I was all alone.
The insulation sprayed out from that wild bucking machine in giant founts that covered over everything.
I felt like a man doing the work of men, doing the things that men are called upon, looked to, to do.
Hairs sprouted all over me, muscles enlarged, bones thickened; my god I could have thrown a football into eternity.
Nevermind I sprayed it all in one direction.
Never you worry that I filled one end of the attic while forgetting to turn and fill the half behind me.
Now, in my middle age, I feel perhaps I should have hired someone to do it for me.
But that has its own issues.
I know that when men come to fix things at my house, they look around and think that I am not one of them.