Slaughter of the Calves

If I reproduce with my current partner, the offspring will be 75-percent Asian, 25-percent white. The bastard creation will almost certainly look much more like me than my fiancée, who has brown hair. I already established with her that whenever we get into a big fight, I will tell our children she’s not their real mother.

Trust your eyes, kids. Do you even see a resemblance in her? And trust your eyes, literally. They are small like mine, and unlike the evil white stepmother’s.

This is an aggressive strategy, I know. But the tactics seem necessary after the enemy made a nonchalant comment the other day, saying the trick to relationships is to make the guy think he’s in control. I took that to be more sinister than playful, and especially unseemly around the holidays.

Then I got to thinking… is this little white devil right? I saw an amazing clip, or maybe it was a meme, in response to the Syrian refugee crisis. The gist was that for those who fear refugees from across the ocean entering our land and killing us all, that’s only happened once in American history — and we were passing around the turkey and egg nog Thursday in celebration of it.

Tricky, tricky. So my princess is half-land-grabbing-Pilgrim and half-Japanese, the latter of whom invaded, raped and dang near annihilated my Chinese ancestors less than a century ago. With that kind of lineage, I don’t like my odds in a subversive power struggle.

I fought very hard against her attacks on my wardrobe, and my Levi’s relaxed fit, blue-turned-whitish jeans from circa 2004 remain proudly in the rotation. She did, however, get me to bend (if not take a dump on) my principles with the purchase of some horrifically skinny black Joe’s Jeans.

First of all, anyone who’s ever seen me do the stanky leg portion of the Nae Nae knows I have enormous calves. I’m not bragging. I would rather those be my biceps any day. But the less I work out my calves, the bigger they get. I’m not even allowed to raise my legs for crunches at the gym because they block out all the natural light from the windows.

It’s always been that way. My mom said my favorite daycare teacher growing up was a black lady who called me Fat Cheese and Bold Legs, and I wanted her exclusively to hold me. If only my balls had developed as rapidly as my calves, I could have made a proposition.

Calves like these weren’t accounted for by skinny jeans designers who don’t play sports. I look like a ballerina wearing these tights, and I instinctively sit down like an 80-year-old after a long NFL career. The big burly lumberjack guy at our office openly mocked my jeans through his unruly beard that I could never grow in a hundred years. The least I could do for my masculinity in that workplace showdown is wear some clothes meant for men.

Alternatively, if I am going to look like a clown, the least I could do is be comfortable. When my fiancée picked me up from the airport last week, I was wearing Iverson-baggy green sweats, a discolored gym shirt, and my retainer. She said I looked homeless, but I sincerely doubt orthodontics come before shelter for that demographic.

That’s the kind of stuff I wear when at a safe distance from the tyrant. I am my own man. Or am I? I was hanging out in New York with my best friend of two decades, the same guy who used to wear a Bone Thugs-N-Harmony shirt and Kevin Garnett jersey with an undershirt to school. Someone with that misguided of a childhood could never judge my clothing, yet I felt compelled to change into those very skinny jeans when going to dinner with him.

Yesterday I asked the woman to take me shopping for an outfit for the company holiday party. Keep in mind last year a male colleague wearing a fur vest tore the buttons off my shirt, while we scissored in the middle of the dance floor. So I didn’t need anything fancy. At the end of our shopping day, I had three articles of clothing for $261.50, and none of them were for the party.

This purchasing behavior was as close to the core of female thought as you can get: Identify a purpose, a clear path to achieve it, and then take actions utterly irrelevant to it. And I didn’t even put up a fight. I was just happy to be spending time with her, even though she was leading me off a cliff.

When moving to California, you are required to change over your driver’s license within 20 days. It’s been 9 years for me. I have methodically renewed my Texas license by mail or during trips home to keep the window open for a move back, if only nominally.

That window is closed now. It was recently decided we will be settling down in Los Angeles. Notice the passive verb in the previous sentence. Who decided? I can’t really remember. I think I was involved. Was it 50-50? Was it my idea? Did she make me think it was my idea? All I know is I have 30 relatives in Texas, and she has three in California.

I don’t know anything anymore. The Bone Thugs best friend is of the opinion that the woman is always in control of the relationship. I disagree, but I also feel my confidence and testicles shriveling. How 2016 plays out will be very telling.

Through a happy confluence of parent-funded tuition and cars, an aversion to spending money on myself, a commitment to maximizing value to price, and hard work in three career paths, I have amassed a large sum of liquid savings highly atypical of a 31-year-old in this economic age. I am truly proud of myself for that.

And I have offered to apply the balance to the wedding and a down payment. All that good fortune and effort, patience and discipline, time spent comparing deals and accruing interest and working overtime, boils down to one party and a mortgage on a house in the ghetto the size of a garage in north Dallas.

Of course, these are my ideas and I’m not doing anything I don’t want to do. It’s not like she was the pirate pointing the gun at Tom Hanks in Captain Phillips, declaring “I’m the captain now.” Certainly I still have a hand on the steering wheel, but I just wonder more and more if the destination was determined the moment I boarded.